Machi edit it as you like or add some more questions if you want

I would like to know if our account is set under Auto renewal feature. If yes, we have some questions regarding the Auto renewal feature

1. What will happen if we cancel the Auto renewal feature before the expire date(Put the exact expiry date)
2. How to cancel the Auto renewal feature?
3. If we cancel the Auto renewal feature, Will we be billed on monthly basis or is there a subscription renewal for One year?
4. Can we renew our account using PayPal
5. Can we use alternate Credit card to renew the subscription under Auto renewal?

Note: We do not want to cancel the Auto renewal feature now.

Michael Hussey compiled an excellent one-day innings of 73 to build on Ricky Ponting’s solid platform as Australia fought off an Indian revival to post 292 for 8 in the first ODI of the seven-match series at the Reliance stadium here today.

Four Australians reached half-centuries and it enabled the team set India a challenging target.

**************************

had been hidden beneath the lifeless clenched fingers.

“They appear to be numbers,” Langdon said, surprised. “Although I don’t recognize them.”

“The first is a Roman numeral,” Anderson said.

“Actually, I don’t think so,” Langdon corrected. “The Roman numeral I-I-I-X doesn’t exist. It

would be written V-I-I.”

“How about the rest of it?” Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. It looks like eight-eight-five in Arabic numbers.”

“Arabic?” Anderson asked. “They look like normal numbers.”

“Our normal numbers are Arabic.” Langdon had become so accustomed to clarifying this point

for his students that he’d actually prepared a lecture about the scientific advances made by early

Middle Eastern cultures, one of them being our modern numbering system, whose advantages

over Roman numerals included ‘positional notation’ and the invention of the number zero. Of

course, Langdon always ended this lecture with a reminder that Arab culture had also given

mankind the word al-kuhl—the favorite beverage of Harvard freshmen—known as alcohol.

Langdon scrutinized the tattoo, feeling puzzled. “And I’m not even sure about the eight-eightfive.

The rectilinear writing looks unusual. Those may not be numbers.”

“Then what are they? Sato asked.

“I’m not sure. The whole tattoo looks almost . . . runic.”

“Meaning?” Sato asked.

“Runic alphabets are composed solely of straight lines. Their letters are called runes and were

often used for carving in stone because curves were too difficult to chisel.”

“If these are runes,” Sato said, “what is their meaning?”

Langdon shook his head. His expertise extended only to the most rudimentary runic alphabet—

Futhark—a third-century Teutonic system, and this was not Futhark. “To be honest, I’m not even

sure these are runes. You’d need to ask a specialist. There are dozens of different forms—

Hälsinge, Manx, the ‘dotted’ Stungnar—”

“Peter Solomon is a Mason, is he not?”

Langdon did a double take. “Yes, but what does that have to do with this?” He stood up now,

towering over the tiny woman.

You tell me. You just said that runic alphabets are used for stone carvings, and it is my

understanding that the original Freemasons were stone craftsmen. I mention this only because

when I asked my office to search for a connection between the Hand of the Mysteries and Peter

Solomon, their search returned one link in particular.” She paused, as if to emphasize the

importance of her finding. “The Masons.”

Langdon exhaled, fighting the impulse to tell Sato the same thing he constantly told his students:

“Google” is not a synonym for “research.” In these days of massive, worldwide keyword

searches, it seemed everything was linked to everything. The world was becoming one big

entangled web of information that was getting denser every day.

Langdon maintained a patient tone. “I’m not surprised the Masons appeared in your staff’s

search. Masons are a very obvious link between Peter Solomon and any number of esoteric

topics.”

“Yes,” Sato said, “which is another reason I have been surprised this evening that you have not

yet mentioned the Masons. After all, you’ve been talking about secret wisdom protected by an

enlightened few. That sounds very Masonic, does it not?”

“It does . . . and it also sounds very Rosicrucian, Kabbalistic, Alumbradian, and any number of

other esoteric groups.”

“But Peter Solomon is a Mason—a very powerful Mason, at that. It seems the Masons would

come to mind if we were talking about secrets. Heaven knows the Masons love their secrets.”

Langdon could hear the distrust in her voice, and he wanted no part of it. “If you want to know

anything about the Masons, you would be far better served to ask a Mason.”

“Actually,” Sato said, “I’d prefer to ask someone I can trust.”

Langdon found the comment both ignorant and offensive. “For the

record, ma’am, the entire Masonic philosophy is built on honesty and integrity. Masons are

among the most trustworthy men you could ever hope to meet.”

“I have seen persuasive evidence to the contrary.”

Langdon was liking Director Sato less and less with each passing moment. He had spent years

writing about the Masons’ rich tradition of metaphorical iconography and symbols, and knew

that Masons had always been one of the most unfairly maligned and misunderstood

organizations in the world. Regularly accused of everything from devil worship to plotting a oneworld

government, the Masons also had a policy of never responding to their critics, which made

them an easy target.

“Regardless,” Sato said, her tone biting, “we are again at an impasse, Mr. Langdon. It seems to

me there is either something you are missing . . . or something you are not telling me. The man

we’re dealing with said that Peter Solomon chose you specifically.” She leveled a cold stare at

Langdon. “I think it’s time we move this conversation to CIA headquarters. Maybe we’ll have

more luck there.”

Sato’s threat barely registered with Langdon. She had just said something that had lodged in his

mind. Peter Solomon chose you. The comment, combined with the mention of Masons, had hit

Langdon strangely. He looked down at the Masonic ring on Peter’s finger. The ring was one of

Peter’s most prized possessions—a Solomon family heirloom that bore the symbol of the doubleheaded

phoenix—the ultimate mystical icon of Masonic wisdom. The gold glinted in the light,

sparking an unexpected memory.

Langdon gasped, recalling the eerie whisper of Peter’s captor: It really hasn’t dawned on you yet,

has it? Why you were chosen?

Now, in one terrifying moment, Langdon’s thoughts snapped into focus and the fog lifted.

All at once, Langdon’s purpose here was crystal clear.

Ten miles away, driving south on Suitland Parkway, Mal’akh heard a distinctive vibration on the

seat beside him. It was Peter Solomon’s iPhone, which had proven a powerful tool today. The

visual caller ID now displayed the image of an attractive middle-aged woman with long black

hair.

INCOMING CALL—KATHERINE SOLOMON

Mal’akh smiled, ignoring the call. Destiny pulls me closer.

He had lured Katherine Solomon to his home this afternoon for one reason only—to determine if

she had information that could assist him . . . perhaps a family secret that might help Mal’akh

locate what he sought. Clearly, however, Katherine’s brother had told her nothing of what he had

been guarding all these years.

Even so, Mal’akh had learned something else from Katherine. Something that has earned her a

few extra hours of life today. Katherine had confirmed for him that all of her research was in one

location, safely locked inside her lab.

I must destroy it.

Katherine’s research was poised to open a new door of understanding, and once the door was

opened even a crack, others would follow. It would just be a matter of time before everything

changed. I cannot let that happen. The world must stay as it is . . . adrift in ignorant darkness.

The iPhone beeped, indicating Katherine had left a voice mail. Mal’akh retrieved it.

“Peter, it’s me again.” Katherine’s voice sounded concerned. “Where are you? I’m still thinking

about my conversation with Dr. Abaddon . . . and I’m worried. Is everything okay? Please call

me. I’m at the lab.”

The voice mail ended.

Mal’akh smiled. Katherine should worry less about her brother, and more about herself. He

turned off Suitland Parkway onto Silver Hill Road. Less than a mile later, in the darkness, he

spotted the faint outline of the SMSC nestled in the trees off the highway to his right. The entire

complex was surrounded by a high razor-wire fence.

A secure building? Mal’akh chuckled to himself. I know someone who will open the door for me.

CHAPTER 24

The revelation crashed over Langdon like a wave.

I know why I am here.

Standing in the center of the Rotunda, Langdon felt a powerful urge to turn and run away . . .

from Peter’s hand, from the shining gold ring, from the suspicious eyes of Sato and Anderson.

Instead, he stood dead still, clinging more tightly to the leather daybag that hung on his shoulder.

I’ve got to get out of here.

His jaw clenched as his memory began replaying the scene from that cold morning, years ago in

Cambridge. It was six A.M. and Langdon was entering his classroom as he always did following

his ritual morning laps in the Harvard Pool. The familiar smells of chalk dust and steam heat

greeted him as he crossed the threshold. He took two steps toward his desk but stopped short.

A figure was waiting there for him—an elegant gentleman with an aquiline face and regal gray

eyes.

“Peter?” Langdon stared in shock.

Peter Solomon’s smile flashed white in the dimly lit room. “Good morning, Robert. Surprised to

see me?” His voice was soft, and yet there was power there.

Langdon hurried over and warmly shook his friend’s hand. “What in the world is a Yale blue

blood doing on the Crimson campus before dawn?”

“Covert mission behind enemy lines,” Solomon said, laughing. He motioned to Langdon’s trim

waistline. “Laps are paying off. You’re in good shape.”

“Just trying to make you feel old,” Langdon said, toying with him. “It’s great to see you, Peter.

What’s up?”

“Short business trip,” the man replied, glancing around the deserted classroom. “I’m sorry to

drop in on you like this, Robert, but I have only a few minutes. There’s something I needed to

ask you . . . in person. A favor.”

That’s a first. Langdon wondered what a simple college professor could possibly do for the man

who had everything. “Anything at all,” he replied, pleased for any opportunity to do something

for someone who had given him so much, especially when Peter’s life of good fortune had also

been marred by so much tragedy.

Solomon lowered his voice. “I was hoping you would consider looking after something for me.”

Langdon rolled his eyes. “Not Hercules, I hope.” Langdon had once agreed to take care of

Solomon’s hundred-fifty-pound mastiff, Hercules, during Solomon’s travels. While at Langdon’s

home, the dog apparently had become homesick for his favorite leather chew toy and had located

a worthy substitute in Langdon’s study—an original vellum, hand-calligraphed, illuminated

Bible from the 1600s. Somehow “bad dog” didn’t quite seem adequate.

“You know, I’m still searching for a replacement,” Solomon said, smiling sheepishly.

“Forget it. I’m glad Hercules got a taste of religion.”

Solomon chuckled but seemed distracted. “Robert, the reason I came to see you is I’d like you to

keep an eye on something that is quite valuable to me. I inherited it a while back, but I’m no

longer comfortable leaving it in my home or in my office.”

Langdon immediately felt uncomfortable. Anything “quite valuable” in Peter Solomon’s world

had to be worth an absolute fortune. “How about a safe-deposit box?” Doesn’t your family have

stock in half the banks in America?

“That would involve paperwork and bank employees; I’d prefer a trusted friend. And I know you

can keep secrets.” Solomon reached in his pocket and pulled out a small package, handing it to

Langdon.

Considering the dramatic preamble, Langdon had expected something more impressive. The

package was a small cube-shaped box, about three inches square, wrapped in faded brown

packing paper and tied with twine. From the package’s heavy weight and size, it felt like its

contents must be rock or metal. This is it? Langdon turned the box in his hands, now noticing the

twine had been carefully secured on one side with an embossed wax seal, like an ancient edict.

The seal bore a double-headed phoenix with the number 33 emblazoned on its chest—the

traditional symbol of the highest degree of Freemasonry.

“Really, Peter,” Langdon said, a lopsided grin creeping across his face. “You’re the Worshipful

Master of a Masonic lodge, not the pope. Sealing packages with your ring?”

Solomon glanced down at his gold ring and gave a chuckle. “I didn’t seal this package, Robert.

My great-grandfather did. Almost a century ago.”

Langdon’s head snapped up. “What?!”

Solomon held up his ring finger. “This Masonic ring was his. After that, it was my grandfather’s,

then my father’s . . . and eventually mine.”

Langdon held up the package. “Your great-grandfather wrapped this a century ago and nobody

has opened it?”

“That’s right.”

“But . . . why not?”

Solomon smiled. “Because it’s not time.”

Langdon stared. “Time for what?”

“Robert, I know this will sound odd, but the less you know, the better. Just put this package

somewhere safe, and please tell no one I gave it to you.”

Langdon searched his mentor’s eyes for a glint of playfulness. Solomon had a propensity for

dramatics, and Langdon wondered if he wasn’t being played a bit here. “Peter, are you sure this

isn’t just a clever ploy to make me think I’ve been entrusted with some kind of ancient Masonic

secret so I’ll be curious and decide to join?”

“The Masons do not recruit, Robert, you know that. Besides, you’ve already told me you’d

prefer not to join.”

This was true. Langdon had great respect for Masonic philosophy and symbolism, and yet he had

decided never to be initiated; the order’s vows of secrecy would prevent him from discussing

Freemasonry with his students. It had been for this same reason that Socrates had refused to

formally participate in the Eleusinian Mysteries.

As Langdon now regarded the mysterious little box and its Masonic seal, he could not help but

ask the obvious question. “Why not entrust this to one of your Masonic brothers?”

“Let’s just say I have an instinct it would be safer stored outside the brotherhood. And please

don’t let the size of this package fool you. If what my father told me is correct, then it contains

something of substantial power.” He paused. “A talisman, of sorts.”

Did he say a talisman? By definition, a talisman was an object with magical powers.

Traditionally, talismans were used for bringing luck, warding off evil spirits, or aiding in ancient

rituals. “Peter, you do realize that talismans went out of vogue in the Middle Ages, right?”

Peter laid a patient hand on Langdon’s shoulder. “I know how this sounds, Robert. I’ve known

you a long time, and your skepticism is one of your greatest strengths as an academic. It is also

your greatest weakness. I know you well enough to know you’re not a man I can ask to believe . .

. only to trust. So now I am asking you to trust me when I tell you this talisman is powerful. I

was told it can imbue its possessor with the ability to bring order from chaos.”

Langdon could only stare. The idea of “order from chaos” was one of the great Masonic axioms.

Ordo ab chao. Even so, the claim that a talisman could impart any power at all was absurd, much

less the power to bring order from chaos.

“This talisman,” Solomon continued, “would be dangerous in the wrong hands, and

unfortunately, I have reason to believe powerful people want to steal it from me.” His eyes were

as serious as Langdon could ever recall. “I would like you to keep it safe for me for a while. Can

you do that?”

That night, Langdon sat alone at his kitchen table with the package and tried to imagine what

could possibly be inside. In the end, he simply chalked it up to Peter’s eccentricity and locked

the package in his library’s wall safe, eventually forgetting all about it.

That was . . . until this morning.

The phone call from the man with the southern accent.

“Oh, Professor, I almost forgot!” the assistant had said after giving Langdon the specifics of his

travel arrangements to D.C. “There is one more thing Mr. Solomon requested.”

“Yes?” Langdon replied, his mind already moving to the lecture he had just agreed to give.

“Mr. Solomon left a note here for you.” The man began reading awkwardly, as if trying to

decipher Peter’s penmanship. “‘Please ask Robert . . . to bring . . . the small, sealed package I

gave him many years ago.’ ” The man paused. “Does this make any sense to you?”

Langdon felt surprised as he recalled the small box that had been sitting in his wall safe all this

time. “Actually, yes. I know what Peter means.”

“And you can bring it?”

“Of course. Tell Peter I’ll bring it.”

“Wonderful.” The assistant sounded relieved. “Enjoy your speech tonight. Safe travels.”

Before leaving home, Langdon had dutifully retrieved the wrapped package from the back of his

safe and placed it in his shoulder bag.

Now he was standing in the U.S. Capitol, feeling certain of only one thing. Peter Solomon would

be horrified to know how badly Langdon had failed him.

CHAPTER 25

My God, Katherine was right. As usual.

Trish Dunne stared in amazement at the search-spider results that were materializing on the

plasma wall before her. She had doubted the search would turn up any results at all, but in fact,

she now had over a dozen hits. And they were still coming in.

One entry in particular looked quite promising.

Trish turned and shouted in the direction of the library. “Katherine? I think you’ll want to see

this!”

It had been a couple of years since Trish had run a search spider like this, and tonight’s results

astounded her. A few years ago, this search would have been a dead end. Now, however, it

seemed that the quantity of searchable digital material in the world had exploded to the point

where someone could find literally anything. Incredibly, one of the keywords was a word Trish

had never even heard before . . . and the search even found that.

Katherine rushed through the control-room door. “What have you got?”

“A bunch of candidates.” Trish motioned to the plasma wall. “Every one of these documents

contains all of your key phrases verbatim.”

Katherine tucked her hair behind her ear and scanned the list.

“Before you get too excited,” Trish added, “I can assure you that most of these documents are

not what you’re looking for. They’re what we call black holes. Look at the file sizes. Absolutely

enormous. They’re things like compressed archives of millions of e-mails, giant unabridged

encyclopedia sets, global message boards that have been running for years, and so forth. By

virtue of their size and diverse content, these files contain so many potential keywords that they

suck in any search engine that comes anywhere near them.”

Katherine pointed to one of the entries near the top of the list. “How about that one?”

Trish smiled. Katherine was a step ahead, having found the sole file on the list that had a small

file size. “Good eyes. Yeah, that’s really our only candidate so far. In fact, that file’s so small it

can’t be more than a page or so.”

“Open it.” Katherine’s tone was intense.

Trish could not imagine a one-page document containing all the strange search strings Katherine

had provided. Nonetheless, when she clicked and opened the document, the key phrases were

there . . . crystal clear and easy to spot in the text.

Katherine strode over, eyes riveted to the plasma wall. “This document is . . . redacted?”

Trish nodded. “Welcome to the world of digitized text.”

Automatic redaction had become standard practice when offering digitized documents.

Redaction was a process wherein a server allowed a user to search the entire text, but then

revealed only a small portion of it—a teaser of sorts—only that text immediately flanking the

requested keywords. By omitting the vast majority of the text, the server avoided copyright

infringement and also sent the user an intriguing message: I have the information you’re

searching for, but if you want the rest of it, you’ll have to buy it from me.

“As you can see,” Trish said, scrolling through the heavily abridged page, “the document

contains all of your key phrases.”

Katherine stared up at the redaction in silence.

Trish gave her a minute and then scrolled back to the top of the page. Each of Katherine’s key

phrases was underlined in capital letters and accompanied by a small sample of teaser text—the

two words that appeared on either side of the requested phrase.

 

Trish could not imagine what this document was referring to. And what the heck is a

“symbolon”?

Katherine stepped eagerly toward the screen. “Where did this document come from? Who wrote

it?”

Trish was already working on it. “Give me a second. I’m trying to chase down the source.”

“I need to know who wrote this,” Katherine repeated, her voice intense. “I need to see the rest of

it.”

“I’m trying,” Trish said, startled by the edge in Katherine’s tone.

Strangely, the file’s location was not displaying as a traditional Web address but rather as a

numeric Internet Protocol address. “I can’t unmask the IP,” Trish said. “The domain name’s not

coming up. Hold on.” She pulled up her terminal window. “I’ll run a traceroute.”

Trish typed the sequence of commands to ping all the “hops” between her control room’s

machine and whatever machine was storing this document.

“Tracing now,” she said, executing the command.

Traceroutes were extremely fast, and a long list of network devices appeared almost instantly on

the plasma wall. Trish scanned down . . . down . . . through the path of routers and switches that

connected her machine to . . .

What the hell? Her trace had stopped before reaching the document’s server. Her ping, for some

reason, had hit a network device that swallowed it rather than bouncing it back. “It looks like my

traceroute got blocked,” Trish said. Is that even possible?

“Run it again.”

Trish launched another traceroute and got the same result. “Nope. Dead end. It’s like this

document is on a server that is untraceable.” She looked at the last few hops before the dead end.

“I can tell you, though, it’s located somewhere in the D.C. area.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Not surprising,” Trish said. “These spider programs spiral out geographically, meaning the first

results are always local. Besides, one of your search strings was ‘Washington, D.C.’ ”

“How about a ‘who is’ search?” Katherine prompted. “Wouldn’t that tell you who owns the

domain?”

A bit lowbrow, but not a bad idea. Trish navigated to the “who is” database and ran a search for

the IP, hoping to match the cryptic numbers to an actual domain name. Her frustration was now

tempered by rising curiosity. Who has this document? The “who is” results appeared quickly,

showing no match, and Trish held up her hands in defeat. “It’s like this IP address doesn’t exist. I

can’t get any information about it at all.”

“Obviously the IP exists. We’ve just searched a document that’s stored there!”

True. And yet whoever had this document apparently preferred not to share his or her identity.

“I’m not sure what to tell you. Systems traces aren’t really my thing, and unless you want to call

in someone with hacking skills, I’m at a loss.”

“Do you know someone?”

Trish turned and stared at her boss. “Katherine, I was kidding. It’s not exactly a great idea.”

“But it is done?” She checked her watch.

“Um, yeah . . . all the time. Technically it’s pretty easy.”

“Who do you know?”

“Hackers?” Trish laughed nervously. “Like half the guys at my old job.”

“Anyone you trust?”

Is she serious? Trish could see Katherine was dead serious. “Well, yeah,” she said hurriedly. “I

know this one guy we could call. He was our systems security specialist—serious computer

geek. He wanted to date me, which kind of sucked, but he’s a good guy, and I’d trust him. Also,

he does freelance.”

“Can he be discreet?”

“He’s a hacker. Of course he can be discreet. That’s what he does. But I’m sure he’d want at

least a thousand bucks to even look—”

“Call him. Offer him double for fast results.”

Trish was not sure what made her more uncomfortable—helping Katherine Solomon hire a

hacker . . . or calling a guy who probably still found it impossible to believe a pudgy, redheaded

metasystems analyst would rebuff his romantic advances. “You’re sure about this?”

“Use the phone in the library,” Katherine said. “It’s got a blocked number. And obviously don’t

use my name.”

“Right.” Trish headed for the door but paused when she heard Katherine’s iPhone chirp. With

luck, the incoming text message might be information that would grant Trish a reprieve from this

distasteful task. She waited as Katherine fished the iPhone from her lab coat’s pocket and eyed

the screen.

Katherine Solomon felt a wave of relief to see the name on her iPhone.

At last.

PETER SOLOMON

“It’s a text message from my brother,” she said, glancing over at Trish.

Trish looked hopeful. “So maybe we should ask him about all this . . . before we call a hacker?”

Katherine eyed the redacted document on the plasma wall and heard Dr. Abaddon’s voice. That

which your brother believes is hidden in D.C. . . . it can be found. Katherine had no idea what to

believe anymore, and this document represented information about the far-fetched ideas with

which Peter had apparently become obsessed.

Katherine shook her head. “I want to know who wrote this and where it’s located. Make the

call.”

Trish frowned and headed for the door.

Whether or not this document would be able to explain the mystery of what her brother had told

Dr. Abaddon, there was at least one mystery that had been solved today. Her brother had finally

learned how to use the text-messaging feature on the iPhone Katherine had given him.

“And alert the media,” Katherine called after Trish. “The great Peter Solomon just sent his first

text message.”

In a strip-mall parking lot across the street from the SMSC, Mal’akh stood beside his limo,

stretching his legs and waiting for the phone call he knew would be coming. The rain had

stopped, and a winter moon had started to break through the clouds. It was the same moon that

had shone down on Mal’akh through the oculus of the House of the Temple three months ago

during his initiation.

The world looks different tonight.

As he waited, his stomach growled again. His two-day fast, although uncomfortable, was critical

to his preparation. Such were the ancient ways. Soon all physical discomforts would be

inconsequential.

As Mal’akh stood in the cold night air, he chuckled to see that fate had deposited him, rather

ironically, directly in front of a tiny church. Here, nestled between Sterling Dental and a

minimart, was a tiny sanctuary.

LORD’S HOUSE OF GLORY.

Mal’akh gazed at the window, which displayed part of the church’s doctrinal statement: WE

BELIEVE THAT JESUS CHRIST WAS BEGOTTEN BY THE HOLY SPIRIT, AND

BORN OF THE VIRGIN MARY, AND IS BOTH TRUE MAN AND GOD.

Mal’akh smiled. Yes, Jesus is indeed both—man and God—but a virgin birth is not the

prerequisite for divinity. That is not how it happens.

The ring of a cell phone cut the night air, quickening his pulse. The phone that was now ringing

was Mal’akh’s own—a cheap disposable phone he had purchased yesterday. The caller ID

indicated it was the call he had been anticipating.

A local call, Mal’akh mused, gazing out across Silver Hill Road toward the faint moonlit outline

of a zigzag roofline over the treetops. Mal’akh flipped open his phone.

“This is Dr. Abaddon,” he said, tuning his voice deeper.

“It’s Katherine,” the woman’s voice said. “I finally heard from my brother.”

“Oh, I’m relieved. How is he?”

“He’s on his way to my lab right now,” Katherine said. “In fact, he suggested you join us.”

“I’m sorry?” Mal’akh feigned hesitation. “In your . . . lab?”

“He must trust you deeply. He never invites anyone back there.”

“I suppose maybe he thinks a visit might help our discussions, but I feel like it’s an intrusion.”

“If my brother says you’re welcome, then you’re welcome. Besides, he said he has a lot to tell us

both, and I’d love to get to the bottom of what’s going on.”

“Very well, then. Where exactly is your lab?”

“At the Smithsonian Museum Support Center. Do you know where that is?”

“No,” Mal’akh said, staring across the parking lot at the complex. “I’m actually in my car right

now, and I have a guidance system. What’s the address?”

“Forty-two-ten Silver Hill Road.”

“Okay, hold on. I’ll type it in.” Mal’akh waited for ten seconds and then said, “Ah, good news, it

looks like I’m closer than I thought. The GPS says I’m only about ten minutes away.”

“Great. I’ll phone the security gate and tell them you’re coming through.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you shortly.”

Mal’akh pocketed the disposable phone and looked out toward the SMSC. Was I rude to invite

myself? Smiling, he now pulled out Peter Solomon’s iPhone and admired the text message he

had sent Katherine several minutes earlier.

Got your messages. All’s fine. Busy day. Forgot appointment with Dr. Abaddon. Sorry not to

mention him sooner. Long story. Am headed to lab now. If available, have Dr. Abaddon join us

inside. I trust him fully, and I have much to tell you both. —Peter

Not surprisingly, Peter’s iPhone now pinged with an incoming reply from Katherine.

peter, congrats on learning to text! relieved you’re okay. spoke to dr. A., and he is coming to lab.

see you shortly! —k

Clutching Solomon’s iPhone, Mal’akh crouched down under his limousine and wedged the

phone between the front tire and the pavement. This phone had served Mal’akh well . . . but now

it was time it became untraceable. He climbed behind the wheel, put the car in gear, and crept

forward until he heard the sharp crack of the iPhone imploding.

Mal’akh put the car back in park and stared out at the distant silhouette of the SMSC. Ten

minutes. Peter Solomon’s sprawling warehouse housed over thirty million treasures, but Mal’akh

had come here tonight to obliterate only the two most valuable.

All of Katherine Solomon’s research.

And Katherine Solomon herself.

CHAPTER 26

Professor Langdon?” Sato said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you okay?”

Langdon hoisted his daybag higher onto his shoulder and laid his hand on top of it, as if

somehow this might better hide the cube-shaped package he was carrying. He could feel his face

had gone ashen. “I’m . . . just worried about Peter.”

Sato cocked her head, eyeing him askew.

Langdon felt a sudden wariness that Sato’s involvement tonight might relate to this small

package that Solomon had entrusted to him. Peter had warned Langdon: Powerful people want to

steal this. It would be dangerous in the wrong hands. Langdon couldn’t imagine why the CIA

would want a little box containing a talisman . . . or even what the talisman could be. Ordo ab

chao?

Sato stepped closer, her black eyes probing. “I sense you’ve had a revelation?”

Langdon felt himself sweating now. “No, not exactly.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I just . . .” Langdon hesitated, having no idea what to say. He had no intention of revealing the

existence of the package in his bag, and yet if Sato took him to the CIA, his bag most certainly

would be searched on the way in. “Actually . . .” he fibbed, “I have another idea about the

numbers on Peter’s hand.”

Sato’s expression revealed nothing. “Yes?” She glanced over at Anderson now, who was just

arriving from greeting the forensics team that had finally arrived.

Langdon swallowed hard and crouched down beside the hand, wondering what he could possibly

come up with to tell them. You’re a teacher, Robert—improvise! He took one last look at the

seven tiny symbols, hoping for some sort of inspiration.

Nothing. Blank.

As Langdon’s eidetic memory skimmed through his mental encyclopedia of symbols, he could

find only one possible point to make. It was something that had occurred to him initially, but had

seemed unlikely. At the moment, however, he had to buy time to think.

“Well,” he began, “a symbologist’s first clue that he’s on the wrong track when deciphering

symbols and codes is when he starts interpreting symbols using multiple symbolic languages. For

example, when I told you this text was Roman and Arabic, that was a poor analysis because I

used multiple symbolic systems. The same is true for Roman and runic.”

Sato crossed her arms and arched her eyebrows as if to say, “Go on.”

“In general, communications are made in one language, not multiple languages, and so a

symbologist’s first job with any text is to find a single consistent symbolic system that applies to

the entire text.”

“And you see a single system now?”

“Well, yes . . . and no.” Langdon’s experience with the rotational symmetry of ambigrams had

taught him that symbols sometimes had meanings from multiple angles. In this case, he realized

there was indeed a way to view all seven symbols in a single language. “If we manipulated the

hand slightly, the language will become consistent.” Eerily, the manipulation Langdon was about

to perform was one that seemed to have been suggested by Peter’s captor already when he spoke

the ancient Hermetic adage. As above, so below.

Langdon felt a chill as he reached out and grasped the wooden base on which Peter’s hand was

secured. Gently, he turned the base upside down so that Peter’s extended fingers were now

pointing straight down. The symbols on the palm instantly transformed themselves.

“From this angle,” Langdon said, “X-I-I-I becomes a valid Roman numeral—thirteen. Moreover,

the rest of the characters can be interpreted using the Roman alphabet—SBB.” Langdon assumed

the analysis would elicit blank shrugs, but Anderson’s expression immediately changed.

“SBB?” the chief demanded.

Sato turned to Anderson. “If I’m not mistaken, that sounds like a familiar numbering system here

in the Capitol Building.”

Anderson looked pale. “It is.”

Sato gave a grim smile and nodded to Anderson. “Chief, follow me, please. I’d like a word in

private.”

As Director Sato led Chief Anderson out of earshot, Langdon stood alone in bewilderment. What

the hell is going on here? And what is SBB XIII?

Chief Anderson wondered how this night could possibly get any stranger. The hand says SBB13?

He was amazed any outsider had even heard of SBB . . . much less SBB13. Peter Solomon’s

index finger, it seemed, was not directing them upward as it had appeared . . . but rather was

pointing in quite the opposite direction.

Director Sato led Anderson over to a quiet area near the bronze statue of Thomas Jefferson.

“Chief,” she said, “I trust you know exactly where SBB Thirteen is located?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know what’s inside?”

“No, not without looking. I don’t think it’s been used in decades.”

“Well, you’re going to open it up.”

Anderson did not appreciate being told what he would do in his own building. “Ma’am, that may

be problematic. I’ll have to check the assignment roster first. As you know, most of the lower

levels are private offices or storage, and security protocol regarding private—”

“You will unlock SBB Thirteen for me,” Sato said, “or I will call OS and send in a team with a

battering ram.”

Anderson stared at her a long moment and then pulled out his radio, raising it to his lips. “This is

Anderson. I need someone to unlock the SBB. Have someone meet me there in five minutes.”

The voice that replied sounded confused. “Chief, confirming you said SBB?”

“Correct. SBB. Send someone immediately. And I’ll need a flashlight.” He stowed his radio.

Anderson’s heart was pounding as Sato stepped closer, lowering her voice even further.

“Chief, time is short,” she whispered, “and I want you to get us down to SBB Thirteen as quickly

as possible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I also need something else from you.”

In addition to breaking and entering? Anderson was in no position to protest, and yet it had not

gone unnoticed by him that Sato had arrived within minutes of Peter’s hand appearing in the

Rotunda, and that she now was using the situation to demand access to private sections of the

U.S. Capitol. She seemed so far ahead of the curve tonight that she was practically defining it.

Sato motioned across the room toward the professor. “The duffel bag on Langdon’s shoulder.”

Anderson glanced over. “What about it?”

“I assume your staff X-rayed that bag when Langdon entered the building?”

“Of course. All bags are scanned.”

“I want to see that X-ray. I want to know what’s in his bag.”

Anderson looked over at the bag Langdon had been carrying all evening. “But . . . wouldn’t it be

easier just to ask him?”

“What part of my request was unclear?”

Anderson pulled out his radio again and called in her request. Sato gave Anderson her

BlackBerry address and requested that his team e-mail her a digital copy of the X-ray as soon as

they had located it. Reluctantly Anderson complied.

Forensics was now collecting the severed hand for the Capitol Police, but Sato ordered them to

deliver it directly to her team at Langley. Anderson was too tired to protest. He had just been run

over by a tiny Japanese steamroller.

“And I want that ring,” Sato called over to Forensics.

The chief technician seemed ready to question her but thought better of it. He removed the gold

ring from Peter’s hand, placed it in a clear specimen bag, and gave it to Sato. She slipped it into

her jacket pocket, and then turned to Langdon.

“We’re leaving, Professor. Bring your things.”

“Where are we going?” Langdon replied.

“Just follow Mr. Anderson.”

Yes, Anderson thought, and follow me closely. The SBB was a section of the Capitol that few

ever visited. To reach it, they would pass through a sprawling labyrinth of tiny chambers and

tight passages buried beneath the crypt. Abraham Lincoln’s youngest son, Tad, had once gotten

lost down there and almost perished. Anderson was starting to suspect that if Sato had her way,

Robert Langdon might suffer a similar fate.

CHAPTER 27

Systems security specialist Mark Zoubianis had always prided himself on his ability to

multitask. At the moment, he was seated on his futon along with a TV remote, a cordless phone,

a laptop, a PDA, and a large bowl of Pirate’s Booty. With one eye on the muted Redskins game

and one eye on his laptop, Zoubianis was speaking on his Bluetooth headset with a woman he

had not heard from in over a year.

Leave it to Trish Dunne to call on the night of a play-off game.

Confirming her social ineptitude yet again, his former colleague had chosen the Redskins game

as a perfect moment to chat him up and request a favor. After some brief small talk about the old

days and how she missed his great jokes, Trish had gotten to her point: she was trying to unmask

a hidden IP address, probably that of a secure server in the D.C. area. The server contained a

small text document, and she wanted access to it . . . or at the very least, some information about

whose document it was.

Right guy, wrong timing, he had told her. Trish then showered him with her finest geek flattery,

most of which was true, and before Zoubianis knew it, he was typing a strange-looking IP

address into his laptop.

Zoubianis took one look at the number and immediately felt uneasy. “Trish, this IP has a funky

format. It’s written in a protocol that isn’t even publicly available yet. It’s probably gov intel or

military.”

“Military?” Trish laughed. “Believe me, I just pulled a redacted document off this server, and it

was not military.” Zoubianis pulled up his terminal window and tried a traceroute. “You said

your traceroute died?”

“Yeah. Twice. Same hop.”

“Mine, too.” He pulled up a diagnostic probe and launched it. “And what’s so interesting about

this IP?”

“I ran a delegator that tapped a search engine at this IP and pulled a redacted document. I need to

see the rest of the document. I’m happy to pay them for it, but I can’t figure out who owns the IP

or how to access it.”

Zoubianis frowned at his screen. “Are you sure about this? I’m running a diagnostic, and this

firewall coding looks . . . pretty serious.”

“That’s why you get the big bucks.”

Zoubianis considered it. They’d offered him a fortune for a job this easy. “One question, Trish.

Why are you so hot on this?”

Trish paused. “I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

“Must be a special friend.”

“She is.”

Zoubianis chuckled and held his tongue. I knew it.

“Look,” Trish said, sounding impatient. “Are you good enough to unmask this IP? Yes or no?”

“Yes, I’m good enough. And yes, I know you’re playing me like a fiddle.”

“How long will it take you?”

“Not long,” he said, typing as he spoke. “I should be able to get into a machine on their network

within ten minutes or so. Once I’m in and know what I’m looking at, I’ll call you back.”

“I appreciate it. So, are you doing well?”

Now she asks? “Trish, for God’s sake, you called me on the night of a play-off game and now

you want to chat? Do you want me to hack this IP or not?”

“Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. I’ll be waiting for your call.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Zoubianis hung up, grabbed his bowl of Pirate’s Booty, and unmuted the

game.

Women.

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 to 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 loss, 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.W.L. 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 the 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 to 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 Seamus 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, indestructble 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, I 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.

“Quite right! You recognized it, I suppose, by its distinctive mother-of-pearl sheen?”

“And the steam rising in characteristic spirals,” said Hermione enthusiastically, “and it’s supposed to smell differently to each of according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and -”

But she turned slightly pink and did not complete the sentence.

‘May I ask your name, my dear?” said Slughorn, ignoring Hermione’s embarrassment.

“Hermione Granger, sir.”

“Granger? Granger? Can you possibly be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?”

“No. I don’t think so, sir. I’m Muggle-born, you see.”

Harry saw Malfoy lean close to Nott and whisper something; both of them sniggered, but Slughorn showed no dismay; on the contrary, he beamed and looked from Hermione to Harry, who was sitting next to her.

“Oho! ‘One of my best friends is Muggle-born, and she’s the best in our year!’ I’m assuming this is the very friend of whom you spoke, Harry?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Well, well, take twenty well-earned points for Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” said Slughorn genially.

Malfoy looked rather as he had done the time Hermione had punched him in the face. Hermione turned to Harry with a radiant expression and whispered, “Did you really tell him I’m the best in the year? Oh, Harry!”

“Well, what’s so impressive about that?” whispered Ron, who for some reason looked annoyed. “You are the best in the year - I’d've told him so if he’d asked me!”

Hermione smiled but made a “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 Malfoy and Nott, both of whom were smirking skeptically. “When you have seen as much of life as I have, you will not underestimate the power of obsessive love.”

“And now,” said Slughorn, “it is time for us to start work.”

“Sir, you haven’t told us what’s in this one,” said Ernie Macmillan, pointing at a small black cauldron standing on Slughorn’s desk. The potion within was splashing about merrily; it was the color of molten gold, and large drops were leaping like goldfish above the surface, though not a particle had spilled.

“Oho,” said Slughorn again. Harry was sure that Slughorn had not forgotten the potion at all, but had waited to be asked for dramatic effect. “Yes. That. Well, that one, ladies and gentlemen, is a most curious little potion called Felix Felicis. I take it,” he turned, smiling, to look at

Hermione, who had let out an audible gasp, “that you know what Felix Felicis does, Miss Granger?”

“It’s liquid luck,” said Hermione excitedly. “It makes you lucky!”

The whole class seemed to sit up a little straighter. Now all Harry could see of Malfoy was the back of his sleek blond head, because he was at last giving Slughorn his full and undivided attention.

“Quite right, take another ten points for Gryffindor. Yes, it’s a funny little potion, Felix Felicis,” said Slughorn. “Desperately tricky to make, and disastrous to get wrong. However, if brewed correctly, as this has been, you will find that all your endeavors tend to succeed … at least until the effects wear off.”

“Why don’t people drink it all the time, sir?” said Terry Boot eagerly.

“Because if taken in excess, it causes giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence,” said Slughorn. “Too much of a good thing, you know. . . highly toxic in large quantities. But taken sparingly, and very occasionally . . .”

“Have you ever taken it, sir?” asked Michael Corner with great interest.

“Twice in my life,” said Slughorn. “Once when I was twenty-four, once when I was fifty-seven. Two tablespoonfuls taken with breakfast. Two perfect days.”

He gazed dreamily into the distance. 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 this fabulous prize? Well, by turning to page ten of Advanced Potion Making. We have a little over an hour left to us, which should be time for you to make a decent attempt at the Draught of Living Death. I know it is more complex than anything you have attempted before, and I do not expect a perfect potion from anybody. The person who does best, however, will win little Felix here. Off you go!”

There was a scraping as everyone drew their cauldrons toward them and some loud clunks as people began adding weights to their scales, but nobody spoke. The concentration within the room was almost tangible. Harry saw Malfoy riffling feverishly through his copy of Advanced Potion-Making., It could not have been clearer that Malfoy really wanted that lucky day. Harry bent swiftly over the tattered book Slughorn had lent him.

To his annoyance he saw that the previous owner had scribbled all over the pages, so that the margins were as black as the printed portions. Bending low to decipher the ingredients (even here, the previous owner had made annotations and crossed things out) Harry hurried off toward the store cupboard to find what he needed. As he dashed back to his cauldron, he saw Malfoy cutting up Valerian roots as fast as he could.

Everyone kept glancing around at what the rest of the class was doing; this was both an advantage and a disadvantage of Potions, that it was hard to keep your work private. Within ten minutes, the whole place was full of bluish steam. Hermione, of course, seemed to have progressed furthest. Her potion already resembled the “smooth, black currant-colored liquid” mentioned as the ideal halfway stage.

Having finished chopping his roots, Harry bent low over his book again. It was really very irritating, having to try and decipher the directions under all the stupid scribbles of the previous owner, who for some reason had taken issue with the order to cut up the sopophorous bean and had written in the alternative instruction:

Crush with flat side of silver dagger,

releases juice better than cutting.

“Sir, I think you knew my grandfather, Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry looked up; Slughorn was just passing the Slytherin table.

“Yes,” said Slughorn, without looking at Malfoy, “I was sorry to hear he had died, although of course it wasn’t unexpected, dragon pox at his age…”

And he walked away. Harry bent back over his cauldron, smirking. He could tell that Malfoy had expected to be treated like Harry or Zabini; perhaps even hoped for some preferential treatment of the type he had learned to expect from Snape. It looked as though Malfoy would have to rely on nothing but talent to win the bottle of Felix Felicis.

The sopophorous bean was proving very difficult to cut up. Harry turned to Hermione.

“Can I borrow your silver knife?”

She nodded impatiently, not taking her eyes off her potion, which was still deep purple, though according to the book ought to be turning a light shade of lilac by now.

Harry crushed his bean with the flat side of the dagger. To his astonishment, it immediately exuded so much juice he was amazed the shriveled bean could have held it all.

Hastily scooping it all into the cauldron he saw, to his surprise, that the potion immediately turned exactly the shade of lilac described by the textbook.

His annoyance with the previous owner vanishing on the spot, Harry now squinted at the next line of instructions. According the book, he had to stir counterclockwise until the potion turned clear as water. According to the addition the previous owner made, however, he ought to add a clockwise stir after every seventh counterclockwise stir. Could the old owner be right twice?

Harry stirred counterclockwise, held his breath, and stirred once clockwise. The effect was immediate. The potion turned pale pink.

“How are you doing that?” demanded Hermione, who was redfaced and whose hair was growing bushier and bushier in the fumes from her cauldron; her potion was still resolutely purple.

“Add a clockwise stir -”

“No, no, the book says counterclockwise!” she snapped.

Harry shrugged and continued what he was doing. Seven stirs 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.

Chapter 10: The Hour of Gaunt

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, puff-ing 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 sud-denly, 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 down-hill 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 frighten-ing, 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?”

“Ah, 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 Ogden’s face 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 son’s been let loose on them,” said Ogden. “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 com-bined. 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 again, 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 Ogden’s 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 in 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 star-ing 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 trust-worthy. 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.”

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 ad-mired 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 some-thing 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 bo-geys 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 stream-ing 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 detention’s 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.”

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore.

“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened ringers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. “1 am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand…”

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace… are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore.

“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.

“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Mug-gle house to Muggle house — the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneako-scopes and make sure the neighbors don’t spot you bringing in the piano.”

“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days —”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’”

“That’s what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.

“Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It’s just — I didn’t like her either.”

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.

“No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” said Dumbledore.

“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.”

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he said abruptly.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

“You look very like your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got —-”

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing.

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harrys questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?”

“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s face and wagging a stubby ringer at him, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — died a few weeks ago —”

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry’s intestines and held them tight.

“Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father’s at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.

“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.”

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry, “and she’s the best in our year.”

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn.

“Not really,” said Harry coldly.

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. “You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants.

“All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And

Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies… People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

“And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” asked Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

“Of course not,” he said, looking down at Harry. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.”

Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Still… the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hog-warts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the

Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate —”

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” said Harry, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to sympathize with Slughorn’s cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats. “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.

“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumble-dore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Harry went on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry’s words.

“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Kilters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend… in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus… I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death did not shake me… If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection…”

Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a very long lime. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn sinned taken aback.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“Lost…?”

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”

“Yes… well… very gracious… as I say…”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Bye,” said Harry.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.

“All right, all right, I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.

“You will come out of retirement?”

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.”

“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn.

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

“Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Harry in surprise.

“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

“Er…”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.

“Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping

some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin liaison Office.”

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who Lived’… or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’”

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago, words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither can live while the other survives…

Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.

“This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.”

Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and

looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world: the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. Ron was in there… and so was Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he knew…

“If you don’t mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, as they passed through the gate, “I’d like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?”

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.

“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have been proud of you.”

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think he could stand to discuss Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle Vernon say “His godfather’s dead?” and even worse to hear Siriuss name thrown out casually by Slughorn.

“It was cruel,” said Dumbledore softly, “that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship.”

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore’s hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys’ lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness i hat he had come to associate with dementors.

“It’s just hard,” Harry said finally, in a low voice, “to realize he won’t write to me again.”

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about discovering his godfather… and now the post owls would never bring him that comfort again…

“Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before,” said Dumbledore gently. “Naturally, the loss is devastat-ing…

“But while I was at the Dursleys’…” interrupted Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I cant shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius wouldn’t have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life’s too short… Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance… It could be me next, couldn’t it?

But if it is,” he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore’s blue eyes gleaming in the wandlight, “I’ll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”

“Spoken both like your mother and father’s son and Sirius’s true godson!” said Dumbledore, with an approving pat on Harry’s back. “I take my hat off to you — or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you in spiders.

“And now, Harry, on a closely related subject… I gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.

“Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?”

“Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows that I’m the one —

“No, they do not,” interrupted Dumbledore. “There are only two people in the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you.

“Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that you know what the prophecy said?”

“No,” said Harry.

“A wise decision, on the whole,” said Dumbledore. “Although I think you ought to relax it in favor of your friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger. Yes,” he continued, when Harry looked startled, “I think they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something this important to them.”

“I didn’t want —”

“— to worry or frighten them?” said Dumbledore, surveying Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry. As you so rightly said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away.”

Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer. He continued, “On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year.”

“Private — with you?” said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied silence.

“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education.”

What will you be teaching me, sir?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore airily.

Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so ho asked something else that had been bothering him slightly.

“If I’m having lessons with you, I won’t have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?”

”Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not.”

“Good,” said Harry in relief, “because they were a —”

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.

“I think the word ‘fiasco’ would be a good one here,” said Dumbledore, nodding.

Harry laughed.

“Well, that means I won’t see much of Professor Snape from now on,” he said, “because he won’t let me carry on Potions unless I get ‘Outstanding’ in my OWL., which I know I haven’t.”

“Don’t count your owls before they are delivered,” said Dumbledore gravely. “Which, now I think of it, ought to be some time later today. Now, two more things, Harry, before we part.

“Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all i imes from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?”

Harry nodded.

“And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all their post, for instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. However, it would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them.”

“I understand,” said Harry quickly.

“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door and stepping out into the yard. “I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are.”

Chapter 7: The Slug Club

Harry spent a lot of the last week of the holidays pondering the meaning of Malfoy’s behavior in Knockturn Alley. What disturbed him most was the satisfied look on Malfoy’s face as he had left the shop. Nothing that made Malfoy look that happy could be good news. To his slight annoyance, however, neither Ron nor Hermione seemed quite as curious about Malfoy’s activities as he was; or at least, they seemed to get bored of discussing it after a few days.

“Yes, I’ve already agreed it was fishy, Harry,” said Hermione a little impatiently. She was sitting on the windowsill in Fred and George’s room with her feet up on one of the cardboard boxes and had only grudgingly looked up from her new copy of Advanced Rune Translation. “But haven’t we agreed there could be a lot of explanations?”

“Maybe he’s broken his Hand of Glory” said Ron vaguely, as he attempted to straighten his broomstick’s bent tail twigs. “Remember that shriveled-up arm Malfoy had?”

“But what about when he said, ‘Don’t forget to keep that one safe’?” asked Harry for the umpteenth time. “That sounded to me like Borgin’s got another one of the broken objects, and Malfoy wants both.”

“You reckon?” said Ron, now trying to scrape some dirt off his broom handle.

“Yeah, I do,” said Harry. When neither Ron nor Hermione answered, he said, “Malfoy’s father’s in Azkaban. Don’t you think Malfoy’d like revenge?”

Ron looked up, blinking.

“Malfoy, revenge? What can he do about it?”

“That’s my point, I don’t know!” said Harry, frustrated. “But he’s up to something and I think we should take it seriously. His father’s a Death Eater and …”

Harry broke off, his eyes fixed on the window behind Hermione, his mouth open. A startling thought had just occurred to him.

“Harry?” said Hermione in an anxious voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Your scar’s not hurting again, is it?” asked Ron nervously.

“He’s a Death Eater,” said Harry slowly. “He’s replaced his father as a Death Eater!”

There was a silence; then Ron erupted in laughter. “Malfoy? He’s sixteen, Harry! You think You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join?”

“It seems very unlikely, Harry,” said Hermione in a repressive sort of voice. “What makes you think … ?”

“In Madam Malkin’s. She didn’t touch him, but he yelled and jerked his arm away from her when she went to roll up his sleeve. It was his left arm. He’s been branded with the Dark Mark.”

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

“Well…” said Ron, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

“I think he just wanted to get out of there, Harry,” said Hermione.

“He showed Borgin something we couldn’t see,” Harry pressed on stubbornly. “Something that seriously scared Borgin. It was the Mark, I know it… he was showing Borgin who he was dealing with, you saw how seriously Borgin took him!”

Ron and Hermione exchanged another look.

“I’m not sure, Harry…”

“Yeah, I still don’t reckon You-Know-Who would let Malfoy join…”

Annoyed, but absolutely convinced he was right, Harry snatched up a pile of filthy Quidditch robes and left the room; Mrs. Weasley had been urging them for days not to leave their washing and packing until the last moment. On the landing he bumped into Ginny, who was returning to her room carrying a pile of freshly laundered clothes.

“I wouldn’t go in the kitchen just now,” she warned him. “There’s a lot of Phlegm around.”

“I’ll be careful not to slip in it.” Harry smiled.

Sure enough, when he entered the kitchen it was to find Fleur sitting at the kitchen table, in full flow about plans for her wedding to Bill, while Mrs. Weasley kept watch over a pile of self-peeling sprouts, looking bad-tempered.

“… Bill and I ‘ave almost decided on only two bridesmaids, Ginny and Gabrielle will look very sweet togezzer. I am theenking of dressing zem in pale gold, pink would of course be ‘orrible with Ginny’s ‘air!”

“Ah, Harry!” said Mrs. Weasley loudly, cutting across Fleur’s monologue. “Good, I wanted to explain about the security arrangements for the journey to Hogwarts tomorrow. We’ve got Ministry cars again, and there will be Aurors waiting at the station.”

“Is Tonks going to be there?” asked Harry, handing over his Quidditch things.

“No, I don’t think so, she’s been stationed somewhere else from what Arthur said.”

“She has let ‘erself go, zat Tonks,” Fleur mused, examining her own stunning reflection in the back of a teaspoon. “A big mistake if you ask.”

“Yes, thank you,” said Mrs. Weasley tartly, cutting across Fleur again. “You’d better get on, Harry, I want the trunks ready tonight, if possible, so we don’t have the usual last-minute scramble.”

And in fact, their departure the following morning was smoother than usual. The Ministry cars glided up to the front of the Burrow to find them waiting, trunks packed; Hermione’s cat, Crookshanks, safely enclosed in his traveling basket; and Hedwig; Ron’s owl, Pig-widgeon; and Ginny’s new purple Pygmy Puff, Arnold, in cages.

“Au revoir, ‘Any,” said Fleur throatily, kissing him good-bye. Ron hurried forward, looking hopeful, but Ginny stuck out her foot and Ron fell, sprawling in the dust at Fleur’s feet. Furious, red-faced, and dirt-spattered, he hurried into the car without saying good-bye.

There was no cheerful Hagrid waiting for them at King’s Cross Station. Instead, two grim-faced, bearded Aurors in dark Muggle suits moved forward the moment the cars stopped and, flanking the party, marched them into the station without speaking.

“Quick, quick, through the barrier,” said Mrs. Weasley, who

seemed a little flustered by this austere efficiency. “Harry had better go first, with…”

She looked inquiringly at one of the Aurors, who nodded briefly, seized Harry’s upper arm, and attempted to steer him toward the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

“I can walk, thanks,” said Harry irritably, jerking his arm out of the Auror’s grip. He pushed his trolley directly at the solid barrier, ignoring his silent companion, and found himself, a second later, standing on platform nine and three-quarters, where the scarlet Hogwarts Express stood belching steam over the crowd.

Hermione and the Weasleys joined him within seconds. Without waiting to consult his grim-faced Auror, Harry motioned to Ron and Hermione to follow him up the platform, looking for an empty compartment.

“We can’t, Harry,” said Hermione, looking apologetic. “Ron and I’ve got to go to the prefects’ carriage first and then patrol the corridors for a bit.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Harry.

“You’d better get straight on the train, all of you, you’ve only got a few minutes to go,” said Mrs. Weasley, consulting her watch. “Well, have a lovely term, Ron…”

“Mr. Weasley, can I have a quick word?” said Harry, making up his mind on the spur of the moment.

“Of course,” said Mr. Weasley, who looked slightly surprised, but followed Harry out of earshot of the others nevertheless.

Harry had thought it through carefully and come to the conclusion that, if he was to tell anyone, Mr. Weasley was the right person; firstly, because he worked at the Ministry and was therefore in the best position to make further investigations, and secondly,

because he thought that there was not too much risk of Mr. Weasley exploding with anger.

He could see Mrs. Weasley and the grim-faced Auror casting the pair of them suspicious looks as they moved away.

“When we were in Diagon Alley,” Harry began, but Mr. Weasley forestalled him with a grimace.

“Am I about to discover where you, Ron, and Hermione disappeared to while you were supposed to be in the back room of Fred and George’s shop?”

“How did you…?”

“Harry, please. You’re talking to the man who raised Fred and George.”

“Er… yeah, all right, we weren’t in the back room.” “Very well, then, let’s hear the worst.”

“Well, we followed Draco Malfoy. We used my Invisibility Cloak.”

“Did you have any particular reason for doing so, or was it a mere whim?”

“Because I thought Malfoy was up to something,” said Harry, disregarding Mr. Weasley’s look of mingled exasperation and amusement. “He’d given his mother the slip and I wanted to know why.”

“Of course you did,” said Mr. Weasley, sounding resigned. “Well? Did you find out why?”

“He went into Borgin and Burkes,” said Harry, “and started bullying the bloke in there, Borgin, to help him fix something. And he said he wanted Borgin to keep something else for him. He made it sound like it was the same kind of thing that needed fixing. Like they were a pair. And…”

Harry took a deep breath.

“There’s something else. We saw Malfoy jump about a mile when Madam Malkin tried to touch his left arm. I think he’s been branded with the Dark Mark. 1 think he’s replaced his father as a Death Eater.”

Mr. Weasley looked taken aback. After a moment he said, “Harry, I doubt whether You-Know-Who would allow a sixteen-year-old…”

“Does anyone really know what You-Know-Who would or wouldn’t do?” asked Harry angrily. “Mr. Weasley, I’m sorry, but isn’t it worth investigating? If Malfoy wants something fixing, and he needs to threaten Borgin to get it done, it’s probably something Dark or dangerous, isn’t it?”

“I doubt it, to be honest, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley slowly. “You see, when Lucius Malfoy was arrested, we raided his house. We took away everything that might have been dangerous.” “I think you missed something,” said Harry stubbornly. “Well, maybe,” said Mr. Weasley, but Harry could tell that Mr. Weasley was humoring him.

There was a whistle behind them; nearly everyone had boarded the train and the doors were closing.

“You’d better hurry!’ said Mr. Weasley, as Mrs. Weasley cried, “Harry, quickly!”

He hurried forward and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley helped him load his trunk onto the train.

“Now, dear, you’re coming to us for Christmas, it’s all fixed with Dumbledore, so we’ll see you quite soon,” said Mrs. Weasley through the window, as Harry slammed the door shut behind him and the train began to move. “You make sure you look after yourself and…”

The train was gathering speed.

“…be good and…” , She was jogging to keep up now.

“…stay safe!”

Harry waved until the train had turned a corner and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were lost to view, then turned to see where the others had got to. He supposed Ron and Hermione were cloistered in the prefects’ carriage, but Ginny was a little way along the corridor, chatting to some friends. He made his way toward her, dragging his trunk.

People stared shamelessly as he approached. They even pressed their faces against the windows of their compartments to get a look at him. He had expected an upswing in the amount of gaping and gawping he would have to endure this term after all the “Chosen One” rumors in the Daily Prophet, but he did not enjoy the sensation of standing in a very bright spotlight. He tapped Ginny on the shoulder.

“Fancy trying to find a compartment?”

“I can’t, Harry, I said I’d meet Dean,” said Ginny brightly. “See you later.”

“Right,” said Harry. He felt a strange twinge of annoyance as she walked away, her long red hair dancing behind her; he had become so used to her presence over the summer that he had almost forgotten that Ginny did not hang around with him, Ron, and Hermione while at school. Then he blinked and looked around: He was surrounded by mesmerized girls.

“Hi, Harry!” said a familiar voice from behind him.

“Neville!” said Harry in relief, turning to see a round-faced boy struggling toward him.

“Hello, Harry,” said a girl with long hair and large misty eyes, who was just behind Neville.

“Luna, hi, how are you?”

“Very well, thank you,” said Luna. She was clutching a magazine to her chest; large letters on the front announced that there was a pair of free Spectrespecs inside.

“Quibbler still going strong, then?” asked Harry, who felt a certain fondness for the magazine, having given it an exclusive interview the previous year.

“Oh yes, circulation’s well up,” said Luna happily.

“Let’s find seats,” said Harry, and the three of them set off along the train through hordes of silently staring students. At last they found an empty compartment, and Harry hurried inside gratefully.

“They’re even staring at us? said Neville, indicating himself and Luna. “Because we’re with you!”

“They’re staring at you because you were at the Ministry too,” said Harry, as he hoisted his trunk into the luggage rack. “Our little adventure there was all over the Daily Prophet, you must’ve

seen it.”

“Yes, I thought Gran would be angry about all the publicity,” said Neville, “but she was really pleased. Says I’m starting to live up to my dad at long last. She bought me a new wand, look!”

He pulled it out and showed it to Harry.

“Cherry and unicorn hair,” he said proudly. “We think it was one of the last Ollivander ever sold, he vanished next day … oi, come back here, Trevor!”

And he dived under the seat to retrieve his toad as it made one of its frequent bids for freedom.

“Are we still doing D.A. meetings this year, Harry?” asked Luna,

who was detaching a pair of psychedelic spectacles from the middle of The Quibbler.

“No point now we’ve got rid of Umbridge, is there?” said Harry, sitting down. Neville bumped his head against the seat as he emerged from under it. He looked most disappointed.

“I liked the D.A.! I learned loads with you!”

“I enjoyed the meetings too,” said Luna serenely. “It was like having friends.”

This was one of those uncomfortable things Luna often said and which made Harry feel a squirming mixture of pity and embarrassment. Before he could respond, however, there was a disturbance outside their compartment door; a group of fourth-year girls was whispering and giggling together on the other side of the glass.

“You ask him!”

No, you!

“I’ll do it!”

And one of them, a bold-looking girl with large dark eyes, a prominent chin, and long black hair pushed her way through the door.

“Hi, Harry, I’m Romilda, Romilda Vane,” she said loudly and confidently. “Why don’t you join us in our compartment? You don’t have to sit with them,” she added in a stage whisper, indicating Neville’s bottom, which was sticking out from under the seat again as he groped around for Trevor, and Luna, who was now wearing her free Spectrespecs, which gave her the look of a demented, multicolored owl.

“They’re friends of mine,” said Harry coldly.

“Oh,” said the girl, looking very surprised. “Oh. Okay.”

And she withdrew, sliding the door closed behind her.

“People expect you 10 have cooler friends than us,” said Luna, once again displaying her knack for embarrassing honesty.

“You are cool,” said Harry shortly. “None of them was at the Ministry. They didn’t fight with me.”

“That’s a very nice thing to say,” beamed Luna. Then she pushed her Spectrespecs farther up her nose and settled down to read The

Quibbler.

“We didn’t face him, though,” said Neville, emerging from under the seat with fluff and dust in his hair and a resigned-looking Trevor in his hand. “You did. You should hear my gran talk about you. ‘That Harry Potter’s got more backbone than the whole Ministry of Magic put together!’ She’d give anything to have you as a grand-son…

Harry laughed uncomfortably and changed the subject to OWL. results as soon as he could. While Neville recited his grades and wondered aloud

whether he would be allowed to take a Transfiguration NEWT, with only an “Acceptable,” Harry watched him without really listening.

Neville’s childhood had been blighted by Voldemort just as much as Harry’s had, but Neville had no idea how close he had come to having Harry’s destiny. The prophecy could have referred to either of them, yet, for his own inscrutable reasons, Voldemort had chosen to believe that Harry was the one meant.

Had Voldemort chosen Neville, it would be Neville sitting opposite Harry bearing the lightning-shaped scar and the weight of the prophecy… Or would it? Would Neville’s mother have died to save him, as Lily had died for Harry? Surely she would… But what if she had been unable to stand between her son and Voldemort? Would there then have been no “Chosen One” at all? An empty seat where Neville now sat and a scarless Harry who would have been kissed good-bye by his own mother, not Ron’s?

“You all right, Harry? You look funny,” said Neville.

Harry started. “Sorry … I …”

“Wrackspurt got you?” asked Luna sympathetically, peering at Harry through her enormous colored spectacles.

“I… what?”

“A Wrackspurt… They’re invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy,” she said. “I thought I felt one zooming around in here.”

She flapped her hands at thin air, as though beating off large invisible moths. Harry and Neville caught each other’s eyes and hastily began to talk of Quidditch.

The weather beyond the train windows was as patchy as it had been all summer; they passed through stretches of the chilling mist, then out into weak, clear sunlight. It was during one of the clear spells, when the sun was visible almost directly overhead, that Ron and Hermione entered the compartment at last.

“Wish the lunch trolley would hurry up, I’m starving,” said Ron longingly, slumping into the seat beside Harry and rubbing his stomach. “Hi, Neville. Hi, Luna. Guess what?” he added, turning to Harry. “Malfoy s not doing prefect duty. He’s just sitting in his compartment with the other Slytherins, we saw him when we passed.”

Harry sat up straight, interested. It was not like Malfoy to pass up the chance to demonstrate his power as prefect, which he had happily abused all the previous year.

“What did he do when he saw you?”

“The usual,” said Ron indifferently, demonstrating a rude hand

gesture. “Not like him, though, is it? Well… that is” — he did the hand gesture again — “but why isn’t he out there bullying first years?

“Dunno,” said Harry, but his mind was racing. Didn’t this look as though Malfoy had more important things on his mind than bullying younger students?

“Maybe he preferred the Inquisitorial Squad,” said Hermione. “Maybe being a prefect seems a bit tame after that.”

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “I think he’s …”

But before he could expound on his theory, the compartment door slid open again and a breathless third-year girl stepped inside.

“I’m supposed to deliver these to Neville Longbottom and Harry P-Potter,” she faltered, as her eyes met Harry’s and she turned scarlet. She was holding out two scrolls of parchment tied with violet ribbon. Perplexed, Harry and Neville took the scroll addressed to each of them and the girl stumbled back out of the compartment.

“What is it?” Ron demanded, as Harry unrolled his.

“An invitation,” said Harry.

Harry,

I would be delighted if you would join me for a bite of lunch in compartment C.

Sincerely, Horace

“But what does he want me for?” asked Neville nervously, as though he was expecting detention.

“No idea,” said Harry, which was not entirely true, though he had no proof yet that his hunch was correct. “Listen,” he added, seized by a sudden brain wave, “let’s go under the Invisibility Cloak, then we might get a good look at Malfoy on the way, see what he’s up to.”

This idea, however, came to nothing: The corridors, which were packed with people on the lookout for the lunch trolley, were impossible to negotiate while wearing the cloak. Harry stowed it regretfully back in his bag, reflecting that it would have been nice to wear it just to avoid all the staring, which seemed to have increased in intensity even since he had last walked down the train. Every now and then, students would hurtle out of their compartments to get a better look at him. The exception was Cho Chang, who darted into her compartment when she saw Harry coming. As Harry passed the window, he saw her deep in determined conversation with her friend Marietta, who was wearing a very thick layer of makeup that did not entirely obscure the odd formation of pimples still etched across her face. Smirking slightly, Harry pushed on.

When they reached compartment C, they saw at once that they were not Slughorn’s only invitees, although judging by the enthusiasm of Slughorn’s welcome, Harry was the most warmly anticipated.

“Harry, m’boy!” said Slughorn, jumping up at the sight of him so that his great velvet-covered belly seemed to fill all the remaining space in the compartment. His shiny bald head and great silvery mustache gleamed as brightly in the sunlight as the golden

buttons on his waistcoat. “Good to see you, good to see you! And you must be Mr. Longbottom!”

Neville nodded, looking scared. At a gesture from Slughorn, they sat down opposite each other in the only two empty seats, which were nearest the door. Harry glanced around at their fellow guests. He recognized a Slytherin from their year, a tall black boy with high cheekbones and long, slanting eyes; there were also two seventh-year boys Harry did not know and, squashed in the corner beside Slughorn and looking as though she was not entirely sure how she had got there, Ginny.

“Now, do you know everyone?” Slughorn asked Harry and Neville. “Blaise Zabini is in your year, of course –”

Zabini did not make any sign of recognition or greeting, nor did Harry or Neville: Gryffindor and Slytherin students loathed each other on principle.

“This is Cormac McLaggen, perhaps you’ve come across each other … ? No?”

McLaggen, a large, wiry-haired youth, raised a hand, and Harry and Neville nodded back at him.

“… and this is Marcus Belby, I don’t know whether …?”

Belby, who was thin and nervous-looking, gave a strained smile.

“… and this charming young lady tells me she knows you!” Slughorn finished.

Ginny grimaced at Harry and Neville from behind Slughorn’s back.

“Well now, this is most pleasant,” said Slughorn cozily. “A chance to get to know you all a little better. Here, take a napkin. I’ve packed my own lunch; the trolley, as I remember it, is heavy on

licorice wands, and a poor old man’s digestive system isn’t quite up to such things… Pheasant, Belby?”

Belby started and accepted what looked like half a cold pheasant.

“I was just telling young Marcus here that I had the pleasure of teaching his Uncle Damocles,” Slughorn told Harry and Neville, now passing around

a basket of rolls. “Outstanding wizard, outstanding, and his Order of Merlin most well-deserved. Do you see much of your uncle, Marcus?”

Unfortunately, Beiby had just taken a large mouthful of pheasant; in his haste to answer Slughorn he swallowed too fast, turned purple, and began to choke.

“Anapneo,” said Slughorn calmly, pointing his wand at Belby, whose airway seemed to clear at once.

“Not… not much of him, no,” gasped Belby, his eyes streaming.

“Well, of course, I daresay he’s busy,” said Slughorn, looking questioningly at Belby. “I doubt he invented the Wolfsbane Potion without considerable hard work!”

“I suppose…” said Belby, who seemed afraid to take another bite of pheasant until he was sure that Slughorn had finished with him. “Er… he and my dad don’t get on very well, you see, so I don’t really know much about…”

His voice tailed away as Slughorn gave him a cold smile and turned to McLaggen instead.

“Now, you, Cormac,” said Slughorn, “I happen to know you see a lot of your Uncle Tiberius, because he has a rather splendid picture of the two of you hunting nogtails in, I think, Norfolk?”

“Oh, yeah, that was fun, that was,” said McLaggen. “We went with Bertie Higgs and Rufus Scrimgeour; this was before he became Minister, obviously …”

“Ah, you know Bertie and Rufus too?” beamed Slughorn, now offering around a small tray of pies; somehow, Belby was missed out. “Now tell me…”

It was as Harry had suspected. Everyone here seemed to have been invited because they were connected to somebody well-known or influential… everyone except Ginny. Zabini, who was interrogated after McLaggen, turned out to have a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold). It was Neville’s turn next: This was a very uncomfortable ten minutes, for Neville’s parents, well-known Aurors, had been tortured into insanity by Bellatrix Lestrange and a couple of Death Eater cronies. At the end of Neville’s interview, Harry had the impression that Slughorn was reserving judgment on Neville, yet to see whether he had any of his parents’ flair.

“And now,” said Slughorn, shifting massively in his seat with the air of a compere introducing his star act. “Harry Potter! Where to begin? I feel I barely scratched the surface when we met over the summer!” He contemplated Harry for a moment as though he was a particularly large and succulent piece of pheasant, then said, “‘The Chosen One,’ they’re calling you now!”

Harry said nothing. Belby, McLaggen, and Zabini were all staring at him.

“Of course,” said Slughorn, watching Harry closely, “there have been rumors for years… I remember when … well … after that terrible night … Lily … James … and you survived … and the word was that you must have powers beyond the ordinary …”

Zabini gave a tiny little cough that was clearly supposed to

indicate amused skepticism. An angry voice burst out from behind Slughorn.

“Yeah, Zabini, because you’re so talented… at posing…”

“Oh dear!” chuckled Slughorn comfortably, looking around at Ginny, who was glaring at Zabini around Slughorn’s great belly. “You want to be careful, Blaise! I saw this young lady perform the most marvelous Bat-Bogey Hex as I was passing her carriage! I wouldn’t cross her!”

Zabini merely looked contemptuous.

“Anyway,” said Slughorn, turning back to Harry. “Such rumors this summer. Of course, one doesn’t know what to believe, the Prophet has been known to print inaccuracies, make mistakes … but there seems little doubt, given the number of witnesses, that there was quite a disturbance at the Ministry and that you were there in the thick of it all!”

Harry, who could not see any way out of this without flatly lying, nodded but still said nothing. Slughorn beamed at him.

“So modest, so modest, no wonder Dumbledore is so fond … you were there, then? But the rest of the stories … so sensational, of course, one doesn’t know quite what to believe … this fabled prophecy, for instance …”

“We never heard a prophecy,” said Neville, turning geranium pink as he said it.

“That’s right,” said Ginny staunchly. “Neville and I were both there too, and all this ‘Chosen One’ rubbish is just the Prophet making things up as usual.”

“You were both there too, were you?” said Slughorn with great interest, looking from Ginny to Neville, but both of them sat clam-like before his encouraging smile.

“Yes… well… it is true that the Prophet often exaggerates, of course…” Slughorn said, sounding a little disappointed. “I remember dear Gwenog telling me (Gwenog Jones, I mean, of course, Captain of the Holyhead Harpies) …”

He meandered off into a long-winded reminiscence, but Harry had the distinct impression that Slughorn had not finished with him, and that he had not been convinced by Neville and Ginny.

The afternoon wore on with more anecdotes about illustrious wizards Slughorn had taught, all of whom had been delighted to join what he called the “Slug Club” at Hogwarts. Harry could not wait to leave, but couldn’t see how to do so politely. Finally the train emerged from yet another long misty stretch into a red sunset, and Slughorn looked around, blinking in the twilight.

“Good gracious, it’s getting dark already! I didn’t notice that they’d lit the lamps! You’d better go and change into your robes, all of you. McLaggen, you must drop by and borrow that book on nogtails. Harry, Blaise … any time you’re passing. Same goes for you, miss,” he twinkled at Ginny. “Well, off you go, off you go!”

As he pushed past Harry into the darkening corridor, Zabini shot him a filthy look that Harry returned with interest. He, Ginny, and Neville followed Zabini back along the train.

“I’m glad that’s over,” muttered Neville. “Strange man, isn’t he?” “Yeah, he is a bit,” said Harry, his eyes on Zabini. “How come you ended up in there, Ginny?”

“He saw me hex Zacharias Smith,” said Ginny. “You remember that idiot from Hufflepuff who was in the D.A.? He kept on and on asking about what happened at the Ministry and in the end he annoyed me so much I hexed him … when Slughorn came in I thought I was going to got detention, but he just thought it was ;i really good hex and invited me to lunch! Mad, eh?”

“Better reason for inviting someone than because their mother’s famous,” said Harry, scowling at the back of Zabini’s head, “or because their uncle…”

But he broke off. An idea had just occurred to him, a reckless but potentially wonderful idea… In a minute’s time, Zabini was going to reenter the Slytherin sixth-year compartment and Malfoy would be sitting there, thinking himself unheard by anybody except fellow Slytherins… If Harry could only enter, unseen, behind him, what might he not see or hear? True, there was little of the journey left … Hogsmeade Station had to be less than half an hour away, judging by the wildness of the scenery flashing by the windows … but nobody else seemed prepared to take Harry’s suspicions seriously, so it was down to him to prove them.

“I’ll see you two later,” said Harry under his breath, pulling out his Invisibility Cloak and flinging it over himself.

“But what’re you … ?” asked Neville.

“Later!” whispered Harry, darting after Zabini as quietly as possible, though the rattling of the train made such caution almost pointless.

The corridors were almost completely empty now. Nearly everyone had returned to their carriages to change into their school robes and pack up their possessions. Though he was as close as he could get to Zabini without touching him, Harry was not quick enough to slip into the compartment when Zabini opened the door. Zabini was already sliding it shut when Harry hastily stuck out his foot to prevent it closing.

“What’s wrong with this thing?” said Zabini angrily as he smashed the sliding door repeatedly into Harry’s foot.

Harry seized the door and pushed it open, hard; Zabini, still clinging on to the handle, toppled over sideways into Gregory Goyle’s lap, and in the ensuing ruckus, Harry darted into the compartment, leapt onto Zabini’s temporarily empty seat, and hoisted himself up into the luggage rack. It was fortunate that Goyle and Zabini were snarling at each other, drawing all eyes onto them, for Harry was quite sure his feet and ankles had been revealed as the cloak had flapped around them; indeed, for one horrible moment he thought he saw Malfoy’s eyes follow his trainer as it whipped upward out of sight. But then Goyle slammed the door shut and flung Zabini off him; Zabini collapsed into his own seat looking ruffled, Vincent Crabbe returned to his comic, and Malfoy, sniggering, lay back down across two seats with his head in Pansy Parkinsons lap. Harry lay curled uncomfortably under the cloak to ensure that every inch of him remained hidden, and watched Pansy stroke the sleek blond hair off Malfoy’s forehead, smirking as she did so, as though anyone would have loved to have been in her place. The lanterns swinging from the carriage ceiling cast a bright light over the scene: Harry could read every word of Crabbe’s comic directly

below him.

“So, Zabini,” said Malfoy, “what did Slughorn want?”

“Just trying to make up to well-connected people,” said Zabini,

who was still glowering at Goyle. “Not that he managed to find

many.”

This information did not seem to please Malfoy. “Who else had he invited?” he demanded.

“McLaggen from Gryffindor,” said Zabini.

“Oh yeah, his uncle’s big in the Ministry,” said Malfoy.

“… someone else called Belby, from Ravenclaw …”

“Not him, he’s a prat!” said Pansy.

“… and Longbottom, Potter, and that Weasley girl,” finished Zabini.

Malfoy sat up very suddenly, knocking Pansy’s hand aside.

“He invited Longbottom?.”

“Well, I assume so, as Longbottom was there,” said Zabini indifferently.

“What’s Longbottom got to interest Slughorn?”

Zabini shrugged.

“Potter, precious Potter, obviously he wanted a look at ‘the Chosen One,’” sneered Malfoy, “but that Weasley girl! What’s so special about her?”

“A lot of boys like her,” said Pansy, watching Malfoy out of the corner of her eyes for his reaction. “Even you think she’s good-looking, don’t you, Blaise, and we all know how hard you are to please!

“I wouldn’t touch a filthy little blood traitor like her whatever she looked like,” said Zabini coldly, and Pansy looked pleased. Malfoy sank back across her lap and allowed her to resume the stroking of his hair.

“Well, I pity Slughorn’s taste. Maybe he’s going a bit senile. Shame, my father always said he was a good wizard in his day. My father used to be a bit of a favorite of his. Slughorn probably hasn’t heard I’m on the train, or…”

“I wouldn’t bank on an invitation,” said Zabini. “He asked me about Notts father when I first arrived. They used to be old

friends, apparently, but when he heard he’d been caught at the Ministry he didn’t look happy, and Nott didn’t get an invitation, did he? 1 don’t think Slughorn’s interested in Death Eaters.”

Malfoy looked angry, but forced out a singularly humorless laugh.

“Well, who cares what he’s interested in? What is he, when you come down to it? Just some stupid teacher.” Malfoy yawned ostentatiously. “I

mean, I might not even be at Hogwarts next year, what’s it matter to me if some fat old has-been likes me or not?”

“What do you mean, you might not be at Hogwarts next year?” said Pansy indignantly, ceasing grooming Malfoy at once.

“Well, you never know,” said Malfoy with the ghost of a smirk. “I might have … er … moved on to bigger and better things.”

Crouched in the luggage rack under his cloak, Harry’s heart began to race. What would Ron and Hermione say about this? Crabbe and Goyle were gawping at Malfoy; apparently they had had no inkling of any plans to move on to bigger and better things. Even Zabini had allowed a look of curiosity to mar his haughty features. Pansy resumed the slow stroking of Malfoy s hair, looking dumbfounded.

“Do you mean…”

Malfoy shrugged.

“Mother wants me to complete my education, but personally, I don’t see it as that important these days. I mean, think about it… When the Dark Lord takes over, is he going to care how many OWLs or N.E.W.T.S anyone’s got? Of course he isn’t. It’ll be all about the kind of service he received, the level of devotion he was shown.”

“And you think you’ll be able to do something for him?” asked

Zabini scathingly. “Sixteen years old and noi even fully qualified yet?”

“I’ve just said, haven’t I? Maybe he doesn’t care if I’m qualified. Maybe the job he wants me to do isn’t something that you need to be qualified for,” said Malfoy quietly.

Crabbe and Goyle were both sitting with their mouths open like gargoyles. Pansy was gazing down at Malfoy as though she had never seen anything so awe-inspiring.

“I can see Hogwarts,” said Malfoy, clearly relishing the effect he had created as he pointed out of the blackened window. “We’d better get our robes on.”

Harry was so busy staring at Malfoy, he did not notice Goyle reaching up for his trunk; as he swung it down, it hit Harry hard on the side of the head. He let out an involuntary gasp of pain, and Malfoy looked up at the luggage rack, frowning.

Harry was not afraid of Malfoy, but he still did not much like the idea of being discovered hiding under his Invisibility Cloak by a group of unfriendly Slytherins. Eyes still watering and head still throbbing, he drew his wand, careful not to disarrange the cloak, and waited, breath held. To his relief, Malfoy seemed to decide that he had imagined the noise; he pulled on his robes like the others, locked his trunk, and as the train slowed to a jerky crawl, fastened a thick new traveling cloak round his neck.

Harry could see the corridors filling up again and hoped that Hermione and Ron would take his things out onto the platform for him; he was stuck where he was until the compartment had quite emptied. At last, with a final lurch, the train came to a complete halt. Goyle threw the door open and muscled his way out

into a crowd of second years, punching them aside; Crabbe and Zabini followed.

“You go on,” Malfoy told Pansy, who was waiting for him with her hand held out as though hoping he would hold it. “I just want to check something.”

Pansy left. Now Harry and Malfoy were alone in the compartment. People were filing past, descending onto the dark platform. Malfoy moved over to the compartment door and let down the blinds, so that people in the corridor beyond could not peer in. He then bent down over his trunk and opened it again.

Harry peered down over the edge of the luggage rack, his heart pumping a little faster. What had Malfoy wanted to hide from Pansy? Was he about to see the mysterious broken object it was so important to mend?

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Without warning, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry, who was instantly paralyzed. As though in slow motion, he toppled out of the luggage rack and fell, with an agonizing, floor-shaking crash, at Malfoy’s feet, the Invisibility Cloak trapped beneath him, his whole body revealed with his legs still curled absurdly into the cramped kneeling position. He couldn’t move a muscle; he could only gaze up at Malfoy, who smiled broadly.

“I thought so,” he said jubilantly. “I heard Goyle’s trunk hit you. And I thought I saw something white flash through the air after Zabini came back…”

His eyes lingered for a moment upon Harry’s trainers.

“You didn’t hear anything I care about, Potter. But while I’ve got you here…”

And he stamped, hard, on Harry’s face. Harry felt his nose break; blood spurted everywhere.

“That’s from my father. Now, let’s see…”

Malfoy dragged the cloak out from under Harry’s immobilized body and threw it over him.

“I don’t reckon they’ll find you till the trains back in London,” he said quietly. “See you around, Potter… or not.”

And taking care to tread on Harry’s fingers, Malfoy left the compartment.

Chapter 8 — Victorious Snape

Harry could not move a muscle. He lay there beneath the Invisibility Cloak feeling the blood from his nose flow, hot and wet, over his face, listening to the voices and footsteps in the corridor beyond. His immediate thought was that someone would, surely check the compartments before the train departed again. But at once came the dispiriting realization that even if somebody looked into the compartment, he would be neither seen nor heard. His best hope was that somebody else would walk in and step on him.

Harry had never hated Malfoy more than as he lay there, like an absurd turtle on its back, blood dripping sickeningly into his open mouth. What a stupid situation to have landed himself in… and now the last few footsteps were dying away; everyone was shuffling along the dark platform outside; he could hear the scraping of trunks and loud babble of talk.

Ron and Hermione would think that he had left the train without them. Once they arrived at Hogwarts and took their places in the Great Hall, looked up and down the Gryffindor table a few times, and finally realized that he was not there, he, no doubt, would be halfway back to London.

He tried to make a sound, even a grunt, but it was impossible. Then he remembered that some wizards, like Dumbledore, could perform spells without speaking, so he tried to summon his wand, which had fallen out of his hand, by saying the words “Accio Wand!” over and over again in his head, but nothing happened.

He thought he could hear the rustling of the trees that surrounded the lake, and the far-off hoot of an owl, but no hint of a search being made or even (he despised himself slightly for hoping it) panicked voices wondering where Harry Potter had gone. A feeling of hopelessness spread through him as he imagined the convoy of thestral-drawn carriages trundling up to the

school and the muffled yells of laughter issuing from whichever carriage Malfoy was riding in, where he could be recounting his attack on Harry to Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson.

The train lurched, causing Harry to roll over onto his side. Now he was staring at the dusty underside of the seats instead of the ceiling. The floor began to vibrate as the engine roared into life. The Express was leaving and nobody knew he was still on it…

Then he felt his Invisibility Cloak fly off him and a voice overhead said, “Wotcher, Harry.”

There was a flash of red light and Harry’s body unfroze; he was able to push himself into a more dignified sitting position, hastily wipe the blood off his bruised race with the back of his hand, and raise his head to look up at Tonks, who was holding the Invisibiliiy Cloak she had just pulled away.

We’d better get out of here, quickly,” she said, as the train windows became obscured with steam and they began to move out of the station. “Come on, we’ll jump.”

Harry hurried after her into the corridor. She pulled open the train door and leapt onto the platform, which seemed to be sliding underneath them as the train gathered momentum. He followed her, staggered a little on landing, then straightened up in time to see the gleaming scarlet steam engine pick up speed, round the corner, and disappear from view.

The cold night air was soothing on his throbbing nose. Tonks was looking at him; he felt angry and embarrassed that he had been discovered in such a ridiculous position. Silently she handed him back the Invisibility Cloak.

“Who did it?”

“Draco Malfoy,” said Harry bitterly. “Thanks for… well…”

“No problem,” said Tonks, without smiling. From what Harry could see in the darkness, she was as mousy-haired and miserable-lookinng as she had been when he had met her at the Burrow. “I can fix your nose if you stand still.”

Harry did not think much of this idea; he had been intending to visit Madam Pomfrey, the matron, in whom he had a little more confidence when it came to Healing Spells, but it seemed rude to say this, so he stayed stock-still and closed his eyes,

“Episkey” said Tonks.

Harry’s nose felt very hot, and then very cold. He raised a hand and felt gingerly. It seemed to be mended.

“Thanks a lot!”

“You’d better put that cloak back on, and we can walk up to the school,” said Tonks, still unsmiling. As Harry swung the cloak back over himself, she waved her wand; an immense silvery four-legged creature erupted from it and streaked off into the darkness.

”Was that a Patronus?” asked Harry, who had seen Dumbledore send messages like this.

“Yes, I’m sending word to the castle that I’ve got you or they’ll worry. Come on, we’d better not dawdle.”

They set off toward the lane that led to the school.

“How did you find me?”

“I noticed you hadn’t left the train and I knew you had that cloak. I thought you might be hiding for some reason. When I saw the blinds were drawn down on that compartment I thought I’d check.”

“But what are you doing here, anyway?” Harry asked.

“I’m stationed in Hogsmeade now, to give the school extra protection,” said Tonks.

“Is it just you who’s stationed up here, or — ?”

“No, Proudfoot, Savage, and Dawlish are here too.”

“Dawlish, that Auror Dumbledore attacked last year?”

“That’s right.”

They trudged up the dark, deserted lane, following the freshly made carriage tracks. Harry looked sideways at Tonks under his cloak. Last year she had been inquisitive (to the point of being a little annoying at times), she had laughed easily, she had made jokes. Now she seemed older and much more serious and purposeful. Was this all the effect of what had happened at the Ministry? He reflected uncomfortably that Hermione would have suggested he say something consoling about Sirius to her, that it hadn’t been her fault at all, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was far from blaming her for Sirius’s death; it was no more her fault than anyone else’s (and much less than his), but he did not like talking about Sirius if he could avoid it. And so they tramped on through the cold night in silence, Tonks’s long cloak whispering on the ground behind them.

Having always traveled there by carriage, Harry had never before appreciated just how far Hogwarts was from Hogsmeade Station. With great relief he finally saw the tall pillars on either side of the gates, each topped with a winged boar. He was cold, he was hungry and he was quite keen to leave this new, gloomy Tonks behind. But when he put out a hand to push open the gates, he found them chained shut.

“Alohomora!” he said confidently, pointing his wand at the padlock, but nothing happened.

“That won’t work on these,” said Tonks. “Dumbledore bewitched them himself.”

Harry looked around, I could climb a wall,” he suggested.

“No, you couldn’t,” said Tonks flatly. “Anti-intruder jinxes on all of them. Security’s been tightened a hundredfold this summer.”

“Well then,” said Harry, starting to feel annoyed at her lack of helpfulness, “I suppose I’ll just have to sleep out here and wait for morning.”

“Someone’s coming down for you,” said Tonks, “Look.”

A lantern was bobbing at the distant foot of the castle. Harry was so pleased to see it he felt he could even endure Filch’s wheezy criticisms of his tardiness and rants about how his timekeeping would improve with the regular application of thumbscrews. It was not until the glowing yellow light was ten feet away from them, and had pulled off his Invisibility Cloak so that he could be seen, that he recognized, with a rush of pure loathing, the uplit hooked nose and long, black, greasy hair of Severus Snape.

“Well, well, well,” sneered Snape, taking out his wand and tapping the padlock once, so that the chains snaked backward and the gates creaked open. “Nice of you to turn up, Potter, although you have evidently decided that the wearing of school robes would detract from your appearance.”

“I couldn’t change, I didn’t have my —” Harry began, but Snape cut across him.

“There is no need to wait, Nymphadora, Potter is quite — ah

— safe in my hands.”

“I meant Hagrid to get the message,” said Tonks, frowning.

“Hagrid was late for the start-of-term feast, just like Potter here, so I took it instead. And incidentally,” said Snape, standing back to allow Harry to pass him, “I was interested to see your new Patronus.”

He shut the gates in her face with a loud clang and tapped the chains with his wand again, so that they slithered, clinking, back into place.

“I think you were better off with the old one,” said Snape, the malice in his voice unmistakable. “The new one looks weak.”

As Snape swung the lantern about, Harry saw, fleetingly, a look of shock and anger on Tonks’s face. Then she was covered in darkness once more.

“Good night,” Harry called to her over his shoulder, as he began the walk up to the school with Snape. “Thanks for … everything,”

“See you, Harry.”

Snape did not speak for a minute or so. Harry felt as though his body was generating waves of hatred so powerful that it seemed incredible that Snape could not feel them burning him. He had loathed Snape from their first encounter, but Snape had placed himself forever and irrevocably beyond the possibility of Harry’s forgiveness by his attitude toward Sirius. Whatever Dumbledore said, Harry had had time to think over the summer, and had concluded that Snape’s snide remarks to Sirius about remaining safely hidden while the rest of the Order of the Phoenix were off fighting Voldemort had probably been a powerful factor in Sirius rushing off to the Ministry the night that he had died. Harry clung to this notion, because it enabled him to blame Snape, which felt satisfying, and also because he knew that if anyone was not sorry that Sirius was dead, it was the man now striding next to him in the darkness.

“Fifty points from Gryffindor for lateness, I think,” said Snape. “And, let me see, another twenty for your Muggle attire. You know, I don’t believe any House has ever been in negative figures this early in the term: We haven’t even started pudding. You might have set a record, Potter.”

The fury and hatred bubbling inside Harry seemed to blaze white-hot, but he would rather have been immobilized all the way

back to London than tell Snape why he was late.

“I suppose you wanted to make an entrance, did you?” Snape continued. “And with no flying car available you decided that bursting into the Great Hall halfway through the feast ought to create a dramatic effect.”

Still Harry remained silent, though he thought his chest might explode. He knew that Snape had come to fetch him for this, for the few minutes when he could needle and torment Harry without anyone else listening.

They reached the castle steps at last and as the great oaken front doors swung open into the vast flagged entrance hall, a burst of talk and laughter and of tinkling plates and glasses greeted them through the doors standing open into the Great Hail. Harry wondered whether he could slip his Invisibility Cloak back on, thereby gaining his seat at the long Gryffindor table (which, inconveniently, was the farthest from the entrance hall) without being noticed. As though he had read Harry’s mind, however, Snape said, “No cloak. You can walk in so that everyone sees you, which is what you wanted, I’m sure.”

Harry turned on the spot and marched straight through the open doors: anything to get away from Snape. The Great Hall with its four long House tables and its staff table set at the top of the room was decorated as usual with floating candles that made the plates below glitter and glow. It was all a shimmering blur to Harry, however, who walked so fast that he was passing the Hufflepuff table before people really started to stare, and by the time they were standing up to get a good look at him, he had spotted Ron and Hermione, sped along the benches toward them, and forced his way in between them.

“Where’ve you — blimey, what’ve you done to your face?” said Ron, goggling at him along with everyone else in the vicinity. I

“Why, what’s wrong with it?” said Harry, grabbing a spoon and squinting at his distorted reflection.

“You’re covered in blood!” said Hermione. “Come here —”

She raised her wand, said “Tergeo!” and siphoned off the dried blood.

“Thanks,” said Harry, feeling his now clean face. “How’s my nose looking?

“Normal,” said Hermoine anxiously. “Why shouldn’t it? Harry, what happened? We’ve been terrified!”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Harry curtly. He was very conscious that Ginny, Neville, Dean, and Seamus were listening in; even Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost, had come floating along the bench to eavesdrop.

“But —” said Hermione.

“Not now, Hermione,” said Harry, in a darkly significant voice. He hoped very much that they would all assume he had been involved in something heroic, preferably involving a couple of Death Eaters and a dementor. Of course, Malfoy would spread the story as wide as he could, but there was always a chance it wouldn’t reach too many Gryffindor ears.

He reached across Ron for a couple of chicken legs and a handful of chips, but before he could take them they vanished, to be replaced with puddings.

“You missed the Sorting, anyway,” said Hermione, as Ron dived for a large chocolate gateau.

“Hat say anything interesting?” asked Harry, taking a piece of treacle tart.

“More of the same, really . . . advising us all to unite in the face enemies, you know.”

“Dumbledore mentioned Voldemort at all?”

“Not yet, but he always saves his proper speech for after the the feast doesn’t he? It can’t be long now.”

“Snape said Hagrid was late for the feast —”

“You’ve seen Snape? How come?” said Ron between frenzied mouthfuls of gateau.

“Bumped into him,” said Harry evasively.

“Hagrid was only a few minutes late,” said Hermione. “Look, he’s waving at you, Harry.”

Harry looked up at the staff table and grinned at Hagrid, who was indeed waving at him. Hagrid had never quite managed to comport himself with the dignity of Professor McGonagall, Head of Gryffindor House, the top of whose head came up to somewhere between Hagrid’s elbow and shoulder as they were sitting side by side, and who was looking disapprovingly at this enthusiastic greeting. Harry was surprised to see the Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, sitting on Hagrid’s other side; she rarely left her tower room, and he had never seen her at the start-of-term feast before. She looked as odd as ever, glittering with beads and trailing shawls, her eyes magnified to enormous size by her spectacles. Having always considered her a bit of a fraud, Harry had been shocked to discover at the end of the previous term that it had been she who had made the prediction that caused Lord Voldemort to kill Harry’s parents and attack Harry himself. The knowledge made him even less eager to find himself in her company, thankfully, this year he would be dropping Divination. Her great beaconlike eyes swiveled in his direction; he hastily looked away toward the Slytherin table. Draco Malfoy was miming the shatterering of a nose to raucous laughter and

applause. Harry dropped his gaze to his treacle tart, his insides burning again. What he would give to fight Malfoy one-on-one…

“So what did Professor Slughorn want?” Hermione asked.

“To know what really happened at the Ministry.” said Harry.

“Him and everyone else here,” sniffed Hermione. “People were interrogating us about it on the train, weren’t they, Ron?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. “All wanting to know if you really are ‘the Chosen One’ —”

“There has been much talk on that very subject even amongst the ghosts,” interrupted Nearly Headless Nick, inclining his barely connected head toward Harry so that it wobbled dangerously on its ruff. “I am considered something of a Potter authority; it is widely known that we are friendly. I have assured the spirit community that I will not pester you for information, however. ‘Harry Potter knows that he can confide in me with complete confidence,’ I told them. ‘I would rather die than betray his trust.’”

“That’s not saying much, seeing as you’re already dead,” Ron observed.

“Once again, you show all the sensitivity of a blunt axe,” said Nearly Headless Nick in affronted tones, and he rose into the air and glided back toward the far end of the Gryffindor table just as Dumbledore got to his feet at the staff table. The talk and laughter echoing around the Hall died away almost instantly.

“The very best of evenings to you!” he said, smiling broadly, his arms opened wide as though to embrace the whole room.

“What happened to his hand?” gasped Hermione.

She was not the only one who had noticed. Dumbledore’s right hand was as blackened and dead-looking as it had been on the night he had come to fetch Harry from the Dursleys. Whispers it the room; Dumbledore,

interpreting them correctly, merely smiled and shook his purple-and-gold sleeve over his injury.

“Nothing to worry about,” he said airily. “Now … to our new students, welcome, to our old students, welcome back! Another year full of magical education awaits you …”

“His hand was like that when I saw him over the summer,”

Harry whispered to Hermione. “I thought he’d have cured it by now, though … or Madam Pomfrey would’ve done.”

“It looks as if it’s died,” said Hermione, with a nauseated expression. “But there are some injuries you can’t cure… old curses…and there are poisons without antidotes. . . .”

“…and Mr. Filch, our caretaker, has asked me to say that there is a blanket ban on any joke items bought at the shop called Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

“Those wishing to play for their House Quidditch teams should give their names to their Heads of House as usual. We are also looking for new Quidditch commentators, who should do likewise.

“We are pleased to welcome a new member of staff this year, Professor Slughorn”— Slughorn stood up, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, his big waistcoated belly casting the table into shadow — “is a former colleague of mine who has agreed to resume his old post of Potions master.”

“Potions?”

“Potions?”

The word echoed all over the Hall as people wondered wheel they had heard right.

“Potions?” said Ron and Hermione together, turning to stare Harry. “But you said —”

“Professor Snape, meanwhile,” said Dumbledore, raising voice so that it carried over all the muttering, “will be taking the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

“No!” said Harry, so loudly that many heads turned in his direction. He did not care; he was staring up at the staff table, incensed. How could Snape be given the Defense Against the Dark Arts job after all this time? Hadn’t it been widely known for years that Dumbledore did not trust him to do it?

“But Harry, you said that Slughorn was going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts!” said Hermione.

“I thought he was!” said Harry, racking his brains to remember when Dumbledore had told him this, but now that he came to think of it, he was unable to recall Dumbledore ever telling him what Slughorn would be teaching.

Snape, who was sitting on Dumbledore’s right, did not stand up his mention of his name; he merely raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment of the applause from the Slytherin table, yet Harry was sure he could detect a look of triumph on the features he loathed so much.

“Well, there’s one good thing,” he said savagely. “Snape’ll be gone by the end of the year.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ron.

“That job’s jinxed. No ones lasted more than a year… Quirrell actually died doing it… Personally, I’m going to keep my fingers crossed for another death…”

“Harry!” said Hermione, shocked and reproachful.

“He might just go back to teaching Potions at the end of the year,” said Ron reasonably. “That Slughorn bloke might not want to stay long-term. Moody didn’t.”

“Dumbledore cleared his throat. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were not the only ones who had been talking; the whole Hall had erupted in a buzz of conversation at the news that Snape had finally achieved his heart’s desire. Seemingly oblivious to the sensational nature of the news he had just imparted, Dumbledore said nothing more about staff appointments, but waited a few seconds to ensure that the silence was absolute before continuing.

“Now, as everybody in this Hall knows, Lord Voldemort and his followers are once more at large and gaining in strength.”

The silence seemed to tauten and strain as Dumbledore spoke. Harry glanced at Malfoy. Malfoy was not looking at Dumbledore, but making his fork hover in midair with his wand, as though he found the headmaster’s words unworthy of his attention.

“I cannot emphasize strongly enough how dangerous the present situation is, and how much care each of us at Hogwarts must take to ensure that we remain safe. The castle’s magical fortifications have been strengthened over the summer, we are protected in new and more powerful ways, but we must still guard scrupulously against carelessness on the part of any student or member of staff. I urge you, therefore, to abide by any security restrictions that you teachers might impose upon you, however irksome you might find them — in particular, the rule that you are not to be out of after hours. I implore you, should you notice anything strange or suspicious within or outside the castle, to report it to a member of staff immediately. I trust you to conduct yourselves, always, with the utmost regard for your own and others’ safety.”

Dumbledore’s blue eyes swept over the students before he smiled once more.

“But now, your beds await, as warm and comfortable as you could possibly wish, and I know that your top priority is to be well-rested for your lessons tomorrow. Let us therefore say good night. Pip pip!”

With the usual deafening scraping noise, the benches moved back and the hundreds of students began to file out of the Great Hall toward their dormitories. Harry, who was in no hurry at all to leave with the gawping crowd, nor to get near enough to Malfoy to allow him to retell the story of the nose-stamping, lagged behind, pretending to retie the lace on his trainer, allowing most of Gryffindors to draw ahead of him. Hermione had darted ahead to fulfill her prefect’s duty of shepherding the first years, but Ron remained with Harry.

“What really happened to your nose?” he asked, once they were at the very back of the throng pressing out of the Hall, and out of earshot of anyone else.

Harry told him. It was a mark of the strength of their friendship that Ron did not laugh.

“I saw Malfoy miming something to do with a nose,” he said darkly.

“Yeah, well, never mind that,” said Harry bitterly. “Listen to what he was saying before he found out I was there…”

“Harry had expected Ron to be stunned by Malfoys boasts. With what Harry considered pure pigheadedness, however, Ron was unimpressed.

“Come on, Harry, he was just showing off for Parkinson….

What kind of mission would You-Know-Who have given him?”

“How d’you know Voldemort doesn’t need someone at Hogwarts? It wouldn’t be the first —”

“I wish yeh’d stop sayin’ tha name, Harry,” said a reproachful voice behind them. Harry looked over his shoulder to see Hagtid shaking his head.

“Dumbledore uses that name,” said Harry stubbornly

“Yeah, well, tha’s Dumbledore, innit?” said Hagrid mysteriously.

“So how come yeh were late, Harry? I was worried.”

“Got held up on the train,” said Harry. “Why were you late?”

“I was with Grawp,” said Hagrid happily. “Los’ track o’ the time. He’s got a new home up in the mountains now, Dumbledore fixed it — nice big cave. He’s much happier than he was in the forest. We were havin’ a good chat.”

“Really?” said Harry, taking care not to catch Ron’s eye; the last time he had met Hagrid’s half-brother, a vicious giant with a talent for ripping up trees by the roots, his vocabulary had comprised five words, two of which he was unable to pronounce properly.

“Oh yeah, he’s really come on,” said Hagrid proudly. “Yeh’ll be amazed. I’m thinkin’ o’ trainin’ him up as me assistant.”

Ron snorted loudly, but managed to pass it off as a violent sneeze. They were now standing beside the oak front doors.

“Anyway, I’ll see yeh tomorrow, firs’ lesson’s straight after lunch. Come early an’ yeh can say hello ter Buck — I mean, Witherwings!”

Raising an arm in cheery farewell, he headed out of the doors into the darkness.

Harry and Ron looked at each other. Harry could tell that Ron was experiencing the same sinking feeling as himself.

“You’re not taking Care of Magical Creatures, are you?”

Ron shook his head. “And you’re not either, are you?”

Harry shook his head too.

“And Hermione,” said Ron, “she’s not, is she?”

Harry shook his head again. Exactly what Hagrid would say when he realized his three favorite students had given up his subject, he did not like to think.

Chapter 5: An Excess Of Phlegm

Harry and Dumbledore approached the back door of the Burrow, which was surrounded by the familiar litter of old Wellington boots and rusty cauldrons; Harry could hear the soft clucking of sleepy chickens coming from a distant shed. Dumbledore knocked three times and Harry saw sudden movement behind the kitchen window.

“Who’s there?” said a nervous voice he recognized as Mrs. Weasley’s. “Declare yourself!”

“It is I, Dumbledore, bringing Harry.”

The door opened at once. There stood Mrs. Weasley, short, plump, and wearing an old green dressing gown.

“Harry, dear! Gracious, Albus, you gave me a fright, you said not to expect you before morning!”

“We were lucky,” said Dumbledore, ushering Harry over the threshold. “Slughorn proved much more persuadable than I had expected. Harry’s doing, of course. Ah, hello, Nymphadora!”

Harry looked around and saw that Mrs. Weasley was not alone, despite the lateness of the hour. A young witch with a pale, heart-shaped face and mousy brown hair was sitting at the table clutching a large mug between her hands.

“Hello, Professor,” she said. ” Wotcher, Harry.”

“Hi, Tonks.”

Harry thought she looked drawn, even ill, and there was something forced in her smile. Certainly her appearance was less colorful than usual without her customary shade of bubble-gum-pink hair.

“I’d better be off,” she said quickly, standing up and pulling her cloak around her shoulders. “Thanks for the tea and sympathy, Molly”

“Please don’t leave on my account,” said Dumbledore courteously, “I cannot stay, I have urgent matters to discuss with Rufus Scrimgeour.”

“No, no, I need to get going,” said Tonks, not meeting Dumbledore’s eyes. “‘Night…”

“Dear, why not come to dinner at the weekend, Remus and Mad-Eye are coming… ?”

“No, really, Molly… thanks anyway… Good night, every-one.

Tonks hurried past Dumbledore and Harry into the yard; a few paces beyond the doorstep, she turned on the spot and vanished into thin air. Harry noticed that Mrs. Weasley looked troubled.

“Well, I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “Take care of yourself. Molly, your servant.”

He made Mrs. Weasley a bow and followed Tonks, vanishing at precisely the same spot. Mrs. Weasley closed the door on the empty yard and then steered Harry by the shoulders into the full glow of the lantern on the table to examine his appearance.

“You’re like Ron,” she sighed, looking him up and down. “Both of you look as though you’ve had Stretching jinxes put on you. I swear Ron’s grown four inches since I last bought him school robes. Are you hungry, Harry?”

“Yeah, I am,” said Harry, suddenly realizing just how hungry he was,

“Sit down, dear, I’ll knock something up.”

As Harry sat down, a furry ginger cat with a squashed face lumped onto his knees and settled there, purring.

“So Hermione’s here?” he asked happily as he tickled Crookshanks behind the ears.

“Oh yes, she arrived the day before yesterday,” said Mrs. Weasley, rapping a large iron pot with her wand. It bounced onto the stove with a loud clang and began to bubble at once. “Everyone’s in bed, of course, we didn’t expect you for hours. Here you are…”

She tapped the pot again; it rose into the air, flew toward Harry, and tipped over; Mrs. Weasley slid a bowl nearly beneath it just in lime to catch the stream of thick, steaming onion soup.

“Bread, dear?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley.”

She waved her wand over her shoulder; a loaf of bread and a knife soared gracefully onto the table; as the loaf sliced itself and the soup pot dropped back onto the stove, Mrs. Weasley sat down opposite him.

“So you persuaded Horace Slughorn to take the job?”

Harry nodded, his mouth so full of hot soup that he could not speak.

“He taught Arthur and me,” said Mrs. Weasley. “He was at Hog-warts for ages, started around the same time as Dumbledore, I think. Did you like him?”

His mouth now full of bread, Harry shrugged and gave a noncommittal jerk of the head.

“I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Weasley, nodding wisely. “Of course he can be charming when he wants to be, but Arthur’s never liked him much. The Ministry’s littered with Slughorn’s old favorites, he was always good at giving leg ups, but he never had much time for Arthur… didn’t seem to think

he was enough of a highflier. Well, that just shows you, even Slughorn makes mistakes. I don’t know whether Ron’s told you in any of his letters… it’s only just happened… but Arthur’s been promoted!”

It could not have been clearer that Mrs. Weasley had been bursting to say this.

Harry swallowed a large amount of very hot soup and thought he could feel his throat blistering. “That’s great!” he gasped.

“You are sweet,” beamed Mrs. Weasley, possibly taking his watering eyes for emotion at the news. “Yes, Rufus Scrimgeour has set up several new offices in response to the present situation, and Arthur’s heading the Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects. It’s a big job, he’s got ten people reporting to him now!”

“What exactly?”

“Well, you see, in all the panic about You-Know-Who, odd things have been cropping up for sale everywhere, things that are supposed to guard against You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters. You can imagine the kind of thing… so-called protective potions that are really gravy with a bit of bubotuber pus added, or instructions for defensive jinxes that actually make your ears fall off… Well, in the main the perpetrators are just people like Mundungus Hotelier, who’ve never done an honest day’s work in their lives and are taking advantage of how frightened everybody is, but every now and then something really nasty turns up. The other day Arthur confiscated a box

of cursed Sneakoscopes that were almost certainly planted by a Death Eater. So you see, it’s a very important job, and I tell him it’s just silly to miss dealing with spark plugs and toasters and all the rest of that Muggle rubbish.” Mrs. Weasley ended her speech with a stern look, as if it had been Harry suggesting that it was natural to miss spark plugs.

“Is Mr. Weasley still at work?” Harry asked.

“Yes, he is. As a matter of fact, he’s a tiny bit late… He said he’d be back around midnight…”

She turned to look at a large clock that was perched awkwardly on top of a pile of sheets in the washing basket at the end of the table. Harry recognized it at once: It had nine hands, each inscribed with the name of a family member, and usually hung on i he Weasleys’ sitting room wall, though its current position suggested that Mrs. Weasley had taken to carrying it around the house with her. Every single one of its nine hands was now pointing at “mortal peril.”

“It’s been like that for a while now,” said Mrs. Weasley, in an un-convincingly casual voice, “ever since You-Know-Who came back into the open. I suppose everybody’s in mortal danger now… I don’t think it can be just our family… but I don’t know anyone else who’s got a clock like this, so I can’t check. Oh!”

With a sudden exclamation she pointed at the clock’s face. Mr. Weasley’s hand had switched to “traveling.”

“He’s coming!”

And sure enough, a moment later there was a knock on the back door. Mrs. Weasley jumped up and hurried to it; with one hand on the doorknob and her face pressed against the wood she called softly, “Arthur, is that you?”

“Yes,” came Mr. Weasley’s weary voice. “But I would say that even if I were a Death Eater, dear. Ask the question!”

“Oh, honestly…”

“Molly!”

“All right, all right… What is your dearest ambition?”

“To find out how airplanes stay up.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded and turned the doorknob, but apparently Mr. Weasley was holding tight to it on the other side, because the door remained firmly shut.

“Molly! I’ve got to ask you your question first!”

“Arthur, really, this is just silly…”

“What do you like me to call you when we’re alone together?”

Even by the dim light of the lantern Harry could tell that Mrs. Weasley had turned bright red; he himself felt suddenly warm around the ears and neck, and hastily gulped soup, clattering his spoon as loudly as he could against the bowl.

“Mollywobbles,” whispered a mortified Mrs. Weasley into the crack at the edge of the door.

“Correct,” said Mr. Weasley. “Now you can let me in.”

Mrs. Weasley opened the door to reveal her husband, a thin, balding, red-haired wizard wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and a long and dusty traveling cloak.

“I still don’t see why we have to go through that every time you come home,” said Mrs. Weasley, still pink in the face as she helped her husband out of his cloak. “I mean, a Death Eater might have forced the answer out of you before impersonating you!”

“I know, dear, but it’s Ministry procedure, and I have to set an example. Something smells good… onion soup?”

Mr. Weasley turned hopefully in the direction of the table.

“Harry! We didn’t expect you until morning!”

They shook hands, and Mr. Weasley dropped into the chair beside Harry as Mrs. Weasley set a bowl of soup in front of him too.

“Thanks, Molly. It’s been a tough night. Some idiot’s started selling Metamorph-Medals. Just sling them around your neck and you’ll be able to change your appearance at will. A hundred thousand disguises, all for ten Galleons!”

“And what really happens when you put them on?”

“Mostly you just turn a fairly unpleasant orange color, but a couple of people have also sprouted tentacle like warts all over their bodies. As if St. Mungo’s didn’t have enough to do already!”

“It sounds like the sort of thing Fred and George would find funny,” said Mrs. Weasley hesitantly. “Are you sure… ?”

“Of course I am!” said Mr. Weasley. “The boys wouldn’t do anything like that now, not when people are desperate for protection!”

“So is that why you’re late, Metamorph-Medals?”

“No, we got wind of a nasty backfiring jinx down in Elephant and Castle, but luckily the Magical Law Enforcement Squad had sorted it out by the time we got there…”

Harry stifled a yawn behind his hand.

“Bed,” said an undeceived Mrs. Weasley at once. “I’ve got Fred and George’s room all ready for you, you’ll have it to yourself.”

“Why, where are they?”

“Oh, they’re in Diagon Alley, sleeping in the little flat over their joke shop as they’re so busy,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I must say, I didn’t approve at first, but they do seem to have a bit of a flair for business! Come on, dear, your trunks already up there.”

“‘Night, Mr. Weasley,” said Harry, pushing back his chair. Crookshanks leapt lightly from his lap and slunk out of the room.

“G’night, Harry,” said Mr. Weasley.

Harry saw Mrs. Weasley glance at the clock in the washing basket as they left the kitchen. All the hands were once again at “mortal peril.”

Fred and George’s bedroom was on the second floor. Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at a lamp on the bedside table and it ignited at once, bathing the room in a pleasant golden glow. Though a large vase of flowers had been placed on a desk in front of the small window, their perfume could not disguise the lingering smell of what Harry thought was gunpowder. A considerable amount of floor space was devoted to a vast number of unmarked, sealed cardboard boxes, amongst which stood Harry’s school

trunk. The room looked as though it was being used as a temporary warehouse.

Hedwig hooted happily at Harry from her perch on top of a large wardrobe, then took off through the window; Harry knew she had been waiting to see him before going hunting. Harry bade Mrs. Weasley good night, put on pajamas, and got into one of the beds. There was something hard inside the pillowcase. He groped inside it and pulled out a sticky purple-and-orange sweet, which he recognized as a Puking Pastille. Smiling to himself, he rolled over and was instantly asleep.

Seconds later, or so it seemed to Harry, he was awakened by what sounded like cannon fire as the door burst open. Sitting bolt upright, he heard the rasp of the curtains being pulled back: The dazzling sunlight seemed to poke him hard in both eyes. Shielding them with one hand, he groped hopelessly for his glasses with the other.

“Wuzzgoinon?”

“We didn’t know you were here already!” said a loud and excited voice, and he received a sharp blow to the top of the head.

“Ron, don’t hit him!” said a girl’s voice reproachfully.

Harry’s hand found his glasses and he shoved them on, though I he light was so bright he could hardly see anyway. A long, looming shadow quivered

in front of him for a moment; he blinked and Ron Weasley came into focus, grinning down at him.

“All right?”

“Never been better,” said Harry, rubbing the top of his head and slumping back onto his pillows. “You?”

“Not bad,” said Ron, pulling over a cardboard box and sitting on it. “When did you get here? Mum’s only just told us!”

“About one o’clock this morning.”

“Were the Muggles all right? Did they treat you okay?”

“Same as usual,” said Harry, as Hermione perched herself on the edge of his bed, “they didn’t talk to me much, but I like it better that way. How’re you, Hermione?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” said Hermione, who was scrutinizing Harry as though he was sickening for something. He thought he knew what was behind this, and as he had no wish to discuss Sirius’s death or any other miserable subject at the moment, he said, “What’s the time? Have I missed breakfast?”

“Don’t worry about that, Mum’s bringing you up a tray; she reckons you look underfed,” said Ron, rolling his eyes. “So, what’s been going on?”

“Nothing much, I’ve just been stuck at my aunt and uncle’s, haven’t I?”

“Come off it!” said Ron. “You’ve been off with Dumbledore!”

“It wasn’t that exciting. He just wanted me to help him persuade this old teacher to come out of retirement. His name’s Horace Slughorn.”

“Oh,” said Ron, looking disappointed. “We thought…”

Hermione flashed a warning look at Ron, and Ron changed tack at top speed.

“…we thought it’d be something like that.”

“You did?” said Harry, amused.

“Yeah… yeah, now Umbridge has left, obviously we need a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, don’t we? So, er, what’s he like?”

“He looks a bit like a walrus, and he used to be Head of Slytherin,” said Harry. “Something wrong, Hermione?”

She was watching him as though expecting strange symptoms to manifest themselves at any moment. She rearranged her features hastily in an unconvincing smile.

“No, of course not! So, um, did Slughorn seem like he’ll be a good teacher?”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “He can’t be worse than Umbridge, can he?”

“I know someone who’s worse than Umbridge,” said a voice from the doorway. Ron’s younger sister slouched into the room, looking irritable. “Hi, Harry.”

“What’s up with you?” Ron asked.

“It’s her,” said Ginny, plonking herself down on Harry’s bed. “She’s driving me mad.”

“What’s she done now?” asked Hermione sympathetically.

“It’s the way she talks to me… you’d think I was about three!”

“I know,” said Hermione, dropping her voice. “She’s so full of herself.”

Harry was astonished to hear Hermione talking about Mrs. Weasley like this and could not blame Ron for saying angrily, “Can’t you two lay off her for five seconds?”

“Oh, that’s right, defend her,” snapped Ginny. “We all know you can’t get enough of her.”

This seemed an odd comment to make about Ron’s mother. Starting to feel that he was missing something, Harry said, “Who are you… ?”

But his question was answered before he could finish it. The bedroom door flew open again, and Harry instinctively yanked the bedcovers up to his chin so hard that Hermione and Ginny slid off the bed onto the floor.

A young woman was standing in the doorway, a woman of such breathtaking beauty that the room seemed to have become strangely airless. She was tall and willowy with long blonde hair and appeared to emanate a faint, silvery glow. To complete this vision of perfection, she was carrying a heavily laden breakfast tray.

“‘Arry,” she said in a throaty voice. “Eet ‘as been too long!”

As she swept over the threshold toward him, Mrs. Weasley was revealed, bobbing along in her wake, looking rather cross.

“There was no need to bring up the tray, I was just about to do it myself!”

“Eet was no trouble,” said Fleur Delacour, setting the tray across Harry’s knees and then swooping to kiss him on each cheek: He felt the places where her mouth had touched him burn. “I ‘ave been longing to see ‘im. You remember my seester, Gabrielle? She never stops talking about ‘Arry Potter. She will be delighted to see you again.”

“Oh… is she here too?” Harry croaked.

“No, no, silly boy,” said Fleur with a tinkling laugh, “I mean next summer, when we… but do you not know?”

Her great blue eyes widened and she looked reproachfully at Mrs. Weasley, who said, “We hadn’t got around to telling him yet.”

Fleur turned back to Harry, swinging her silvery sheet of hair so that it whipped Mrs. Weasley across the face.

“Bill and I are going to be married!”

“Oh,” said Harry blankly. He could not help noticing how Mrs. Weasley, Hermione, and Ginny were all determinedly avoiding one another’s gaze. “Wow. Er… congratulations!”

She swooped down upon him and kissed him again.

“Bill is very busy at ze moment, working very ‘ard, and I only work part-time at Gringotts for my Eenglish, so he brought me ‘ere for a few days to get to know ‘is family properly. I was so pleased to ‘ear you would be coming… zere isn’t much to do ‘ere, unless you like cooking and chickens! Well… enjoy your breakfast, ‘Arry!”

With these words she turned gracefully and seemed to float out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Mrs. Weasley made a noise that sounded like, “tchah!”

“Mum hates her,” said Ginny quietly.

“I do not hate her!” said Mrs. Weasley in a cross whisper. “I just think they’ve hurried into this engagement, that’s all!”

“They’ve known each other a year,” said Ron, who looked oddly groggy and was staring at the closed door.

“Well, that’s not very long! I know why it’s happened, of course. Its all this uncertainty with You-Know-Who coming back, people think they might be dead tomorrow, so they’re rushing all sorts of decisions they’d normally take time over. It was the same last time he was powerful, people eloping left, right, and center…”

“Including you and Dad,” said Ginny slyly.

“Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?” said Mrs. Weasley. “Whereas Bill and Fleur… well… what have they really got in common? He’s a hardworking, down-to-earth sort of person, whereas she’s…”

“A cow,” said Ginny, nodding. “But Bill’s not that down-to-earth. He’s a Curse-Breaker, isn’t he, he likes a bit of adventure, a bit of glamour… I expect that’s why he’s gone for Phlegm.”

“Stop calling her that, Ginny,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, as Harry and Hermione laughed. “Well, I’d better get on… Eat your eggs while they’re warm, Harry.”

Looking careworn, she left the room. Ron still seemed slightly punch-drunk; he was shaking his head experimentally like a dog trying to rid its ears of water.

“Don’t you get used to her if she’s staying in the same house?” Harry asked.

“Well, you do,” said Ron, “but if she jumps out at you unexpectedly, like then…”

“It’s pathetic,” said Hermione furiously, striding away from Ron as far as she could go and turning to face him with her arms folded once she had reached the wall.

“You don’t really want her around forever?” Ginny asked Ron incredulously. When he merely shrugged, she said, “Well, Mum’s going to put a stop to it if she can, I bet you anything.”

“How’s she going to manage that?” asked Harry.

“She keeps trying to get Tonks round for dinner. I think she’s hoping Bill will fall for Tonks instead. I hope he does, I’d much rather have her in the family.”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” said Ron sarcastically. “Listen, no bloke in his right mind’s going to fancy Tonks when Fleur’s around. I mean, Tonks is okay-looking when she isn’t doing stupid things to her hair and her nose, but…”

“She’s a damn sight nicer than Phlegm? said Ginny.

“And she’s more intelligent, she’s an Auror!” said Hermione from the corner.

“Fleur’s not stupid, she was good enough to enter the Triwizard Tournament,” said Harry.

“Not you as well!” said Hermione bitterly.

“I suppose you like the way Phlegm says ‘ ‘Any,’ do you?” asked Ginny scornfully.

“No,” said Harry, wishing he hadn’t spoken, “I was just saying, Phlegm… I mean, Fleur…”

“I’d much rather have Tonks in the family,” said Ginny. “At least she’s a laugh.”

“She hasn’t been much of a laugh lately,” said Ron. “Every time I’ve seen her she’s looked more like Moaning Myrtle.”

“That’s not fair,” snapped Hermione. “She still hasn’t got over what happened… you know… I mean, he was her cousin!”

Harry’s heart sank. They had arrived at Sirius. He picked up a fork and began shoveling scrambled eggs into his mouth, hoping to deflect any invitation to join in this part of the conversation.

“Tonks and Sirius barely knew each other!” said Ron. “Sirius was in Azkaban half her life and before that their families never met…”

“That’s not the point,” said Hermione. “She thinks it was her limit he died!”

“How does she work that one out?” asked Harry, in spite of himself.

“Well, she was fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, wasn’t she? I think she feels that if only she had finished her off, Bellatrix couldn’t have killed Sirius.”

“That’s stupid,” said Ron.

“It’s survivor’s guilt,” said Hermione. “I know Lupin’s tried to talk her round, but she’s still really down. She’s actually having trouble with her Metamorphosing!”

“With her…?”

“She can’t change her appearance like she used to,” explained Hermione. “I think her powers must have been affected by shock, or something.”

“I didn’t know that could happen,” said Harry.

“Nor did I,” said Hermione, “but I suppose if you’re really depressed…”

The door opened again and Mrs. Weasley popped her head in. “Ginny,” she whispered, “come downstairs and help me with the lunch.”

“I’m talking to this lot!” said Ginny, outraged.

“Now!” said Mrs. Weasley, and withdrew.

“She only wants me there so she doesn’t have to be alone with Phlegm!” said Ginny crossly. She swung her long red hair around in a very good imitation of Fleur and pranced across the room with her arms held aloft like a ballerina.

“You lot had better come down quickly too,” she said as she left.

Harry took advantage of the temporary silence to eat more breakfast. Hermione was peering into Fred and George’s boxes, though every now and then she cast sideways looks at Harry. Ron, who was now helping himself to Harry…s toast, was still gazing dreamily at the door.

“What’s this?” Hermione asked eventually, holding up what looked like a small telescope.

“Dunno,” said Ron, “but if Fred and George left it here, it’s probably not ready for the joke shop yet, so be careful”

“Your mum said the shop’s going well,” said Harry. “Said Fred and George have got a real flair for business.”

“That’s an understatement,” said Ron. “They’re raking in the Galleons! I can’t wait to see the place, we haven’t been to Diagon Alley yet, because Mum says Dad’s got to be there for extra security and he’s been really busy at work, but it sounds excellent.”

“And what about Percy?” asked Harry; the third-eldest Weasley brother had fallen out with the rest of the family. “Is he talking to your mum and dad again?”

“Nope,” said Ron.

“But he knows your dad was right all along now about Voldemort being back…”

“Dumbledore says people find it far easier to forgive others for being wrong than being right,” said Hermione. “I heard him telling your mum, Ron.”

“Sounds like the sort of mental thing Dumbledore would say,” said Ron.

“He’s going to be giving me private lessons this year,” said Harry conversationally.

Ron choked on his bit of toast, and Hermione gasped.

“You kept that quiet!” said Ron.

“I only just remembered,” said Harry honestly. “He told me last night in your broom shed.”

“Blimey… private lessons with Dumbledore!” said Ron, looking impressed. “I wonder why he’s… ?”

His voice tailed away. Harry saw him and Hermione exchange looks. Harry laid down his knife and fork, his heart beating rather fast considering that all he was doing was sitting in bed. Dumbledore had said to do it… Why not now? He fixed his eyes on his fork, which was gleaming in the sunlight streaming into his lap, and said, “I don’t know exactly why he’s going to be giving me lessons, but I think it must be because of the prophecy.”

Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke. Harry had the impression that both had frozen. He continued, still speaking to his fork, “You know, the one they were trying to steal at the Ministry.”

“Nobody knows what it said, though,” said Hermione quickly. “It got smashed.”

“Although the Prophet says…” began Ron, but Hermione said, “Shh!”

“The Prophet’s got it right,” said Harry, looking up at them both with a great effort: Hermione seemed frightened and Ron amazed. “That glass ball that smashed wasn’t the only record of the prophecy. I heard the whole thing in Dumbledore’s office, he was the one the prophecy was made to, so he could tell me. From what it said,” Harry took a deep breath, “it looks like I’m the one who’s got to finish off Voldemort… At least, it said neither of us could live while the other survives.”

The three of them gazed at one another in silence for a moment. Then there was a loud bang and Hermione vanished behind a puff of black smoke.

“Hermione!” shouted Harry and Ron; the breakfast tray slid to the floor with a crash.

Hermione emerged, coughing, out of the smoke, clutching the telescope and sporting a brilliantly purple black eye.

“I squeezed it and it… it punched me!” she gasped.

And sure enough, they now saw a tiny fist on a long spring protruding from the end of the telescope.

“Don’t worry,” said Ron, who was plainly trying not to laugh, “Mum’ll fix that, she’s good at healing minor injuries…”

“Oh well, never mind that now!” said Hermione hastily. “Harry, oh, Harry…”

She sat down on the edge of his bed again.

“We wondered, after we got back from the Ministry… Obviously, we didn’t want to say anything to you, but from what Lucius Malfoy said about the prophecy, how it was about you and Voldemort, well, we thought it might be something like this… Oh, Harry…” She stared at him, then whispered, “Are you scared?”

“Not as much as I was,” said Harry. “When I first heard it, I was… but now, it seems as though I always knew I’d have to face him in the end…”

“When we heard Dumbledore was collecting you in person, we thought he might be telling you something or showing you something to do with the prophecy,” said Ron eagerly. “And we were kind of right, weren’t we? He wouldn’t be giving you lessons if he thought you were a goner, wouldn’t waste his time… he must think you’ve got a chance!”

“That’s true,” said Hermione. “I wonder what he’ll teach you, Harry? Really advanced defensive magic, probably… powerful countercurses… anti-jinxes…”

Harry did not really listen. A warmth was spreading through him that had nothing to do with the sunlight; a tight obstruction in his chest seemed to be dissolving. He knew that Ron and Hermione were more shocked than they were letting on, but the mere fact that they were still there on either side of him, speaking bracing words of comfort, not shrinking from him as though he were contaminated or dangerous, was worth more than he could ever tell them.

“…and evasive enchantments generally,” concluded Hermione. “Well, at least you know one lesson you’ll be having this year, that’s one more than Ron and me. I wonder when our OWL results will come?”

“Cant be long now, it’s been a month,” said Ron.

“Hang on,” said Harry, as another part of last night’s conversation came back to him. “I think Dumbledore said our OWL results would be arriving today!”

“Today?” shrieked Hermione. “Today? But why didn’t you… oh my God… you should have said…”

She leapt to her feet.

“I’m going to see whether any owls have come…”

But when Harry arrived downstairs ten minutes later, fully dressed and carrying his empty breakfast tray, it was to find Hermione sitting at the

kitchen table in great agitation, while Mrs. Weasley tried to lessen her resemblance to half a panda.

“It just won’t budge,” Mrs. Weasley was saying anxiously, standing over Hermione with her wand in her hand and a copy of The Healer’s Helpmate open at “Bruises, Cuts, and Abrasions.” “This has always worked before, I just can’t understand it.”

“It’ll be Fred and George’s idea of a funny joke, making sure it can’t come off,” said Ginny.

“But it’s got to come off!” squeaked Hermione. “I can’t go around looking like this forever!”

“You won’t, dear, we’ll find an antidote, don’t worry,” said Mrs. Weasley soothingly.

“Bill told me W Fred and George are very amusing!” said Fleur, smiling serenely.

“Yes, I can hardly breathe for laughing,” snapped Hermione.

She jumped up and started walking round and round the kitchen, twisting her fingers together.

“Mrs. Weasley, you’re quite, quite sure no owls have arrived this morning?”

“Yes, dear, I’d have noticed,” said Mrs. Weasley patiently. “But it’s barely nine, there’s still plenty of time…”

“I know I messed up Ancient Runes,” muttered Hermione feverishly, “I definitely made at least one serious mistranslation. And the Defense Against the Dark Arts practical was no good at all. I thought Transfiguration went all right at the time, but looking back…”

“Hermione, will you shut up, you’re not the only one who’s nervous!” barked Ron. “And when you’ve got your eleven ‘Outstanding OWLs…’”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” said Hermione, flapping her hands hysterically. “I know I’ve failed everything!”

“What happens if we fail?” Harry asked the room at large, but it was again Hermione who answered.

“We discuss our options with our Head of House, I asked Professor McGonagall at the end of last term.”

Harry’s stomach squirmed. He wished he had eaten less breakfast.

“At Beauxbatons,” said Fleur complacently, “we ‘ad a different way of doing things. I think eet was better. We sat our examinations after six years of study, not five, and then…”

Fleur’s words were drowned in a scream. Hermione was pointing through the kitchen window. Three black specks were clearly visible in the sky, growing larger all the time.

“They’re definitely owls,” said Ron hoarsely, jumping up to join Hermione at the window.

“And there are three of them,” said Harry, hastening to her other side.

“One for each of us,” said Hermione in a terrified whisper. “Oh no… oh no… oh no…”

She gripped both Harry and Ron tightly around the elbows.

The owls were flying directly at the Burrow, three handsome tawnies, each of which, it became clear as they flew lower over the path leading up to the house, was carrying a large square envelope.

“Oh no!” squealed Hermione.

Mrs. Weasley squeezed past them and opened the kitchen window. One, two, three, the owls soared through it and landed on the table in a neat line. All three of them lifted their right legs.

Harry moved forward. The letter addressed to him was tied to the leg of the owl in the middle. He untied it with fumbling fingers. To his left, Ron

was trying to detach his own results; to his right, Hermione’s hands were shaking so much she was making her whole owl tremble.

Nobody in the kitchen spoke. At last, Harry managed to detach the envelope. He slit it open quickly and unfolded the parchment inside.

Ordinary Wizarding Level Results

Pass Grades:

Outstanding (O)

Exceeds Expectations (E)

Acceptable (A)

Fail Grades:

Poor (P)

Dreadful (D)

Troll (T)

Harry James Potter has achieved:

Astronomy A

Care of Magical Creatures E

Charms E

Defense Against the Dark Arts O

Divination P

Herbology E

History of Magic D

Potions E

Transfiguration E

Harry read the parchment through several times, his breathing becoming easier with each reading. It was all right: He had always known that he would fail Divination, and he had had no chance of passing History of Magic, given that he had collapsed halfway through the examination, but he had passed everything else! He ran his finger down the grades… he had passed well in Transfiguration and Herbology, he had even exceeded

expectations at Potions! And best of all, he had achieved “Outstanding” at Defense Against the Dark Arts!

He looked around. Hermione had her back to him and her head bent, but Ron was looking delighted.

“Only failed Divination and History of Magic, and who cares about them?” he said happily to Harry. “Here… swap…”

Harry glanced down Ron’s grades: There were no “Outstandings” there…

“Knew you’d be top at Defense Against the Dark Arts,” said Ron, punching Harry on the shoulder. “We’ve done all right, haven’t we?”

“Well done!” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, ruffling Ron’s hair. “Seven OWLs, that’s more than Fred and George got together!”

“Hermione?” said Ginny tentatively, for Hermione still hadn’t turned around. “How did you do?”

“I–not bad,” said Hermione in a small voice.

“Oh, come off it,” said Ron, striding over to her and whipping her results out of her hand. “Yep… ten ‘Outstandings’ and one ‘Exceeds Expectations’ at Defense Against the Dark Arts.” He looked down at her, half-amused, half-exasperated. “You’re actually disappointed, aren’t you?”

Hermione shook her head, but Harry laughed.

“Well, we’re N.E.W.T. students now!” grinned Ron. “Mum, are there any more sausages?”

Harry looked back down at his results. They were as good as he could have hoped for. He felt just one tiny twinge of regret… This was the end of his ambition to become an Auror. He had not secured the required Potions grade. He had known all along that he wouldn’t, but he still felt a sinking in his stomach as he looked again at that small black E.

It was odd, really, seeing that it had been a Death Eater in disguise who had first told Harry he would make a good Auror, but somehow the idea had taken hold of him, and he couldn’t really think of anything else he would like to be. Moreover, it had seemed the right destiny for him since he had heard the prophecy a few weeks ago… Neither can live while the other survives…Wouldn’t he be living up to the prophecy, and giving himself the best chance of survival, if he joined those highly trained wizards whose job it was to find and kill Voldemort?

Chapter 6: Draco’s Detour

Harry remained within the confines of the Burrow’s garden over the next few weeks. He spent most of his days playing two-a-side Quidditch in the Weasleys’ orchard (he and Hermione against Ron and Ginny; Hermione was dreadful and Ginny good, so they were reasonably well matched) and his evenings eating triple helpings of everything Mrs. Weasley put in front of him.

It would have been a happy, peaceful holiday had it not been for the stones of disappearances, odd accidents, even of deaths now appearing almost daily in the Prophet. Sometimes Bill and Mr. Weasley brought home news before it even reached the paper. To Mrs. Weasley’s displeasure, Harry’s sixteenth birthday celebrations were marred by grisly tidings brought to the party by Remus Lupin, who was looking gaunt and grim, his brown hair streaked liberally with gray, his clothes more ragged and patched than ever.

“There have been another couple of dementor attacks,” he announced, as Mrs. Weasley passed him a large slice of birthday cake. “And they’ve found Igor Karkaroff’s body in a shack up north. The Dark Mark had been set over it… well, frankly, I’m surprised he stayed alive for even a year after deserting the Death Eaters; Sirius’s brother, Regulus, only managed a few days as far as I can remember.”

“Yes, well,” said Mrs. Weasley, frowning, “perhaps we should talk about something diff…”

“Did you hear about Florean Fortescue, Remus?” asked Bill, who was being plied with wine by Fleur. “The man who ran…”

“Is the ice-cream place in Diagon Alley?” Harry interrupted, with an unpleasant, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach. “He used to give me free ice creams. What’s happened to him?”

“Dragged off, by the look of his place.”

“Why?” asked Ron, while Mrs. Weasley pointedly glared at Bill.

“Who knows? He must’ve upset them somehow. He was a good man, Florean.”

“Talking of Diagon Alley,” said Mr. Weasley, “looks like Ollivander’s gone too.”

“The wandmaker?” said Ginny, looking startled.

“That’s the one. Shop’s empty. No sign of a struggle. No one knows whether he left voluntarily or was kidnapped.”

“But what’ll people do for wands?”

“They’ll make do with other makers,” said Lupin. “But Ollivander was the best, and if the other side have got him it’s not so good for us.”

The day after this rather gloomy birthday tea, their letters and booklists arrived from Hogwarts. Harry’s included a surprise: he had been made Quidditch Captain.

“That gives you equal status with prefects!” cried Hermione happily. “You can use our special bathroom now and everything!”

“Wow, I remember when Charlie wore one of these,” said Ron, examining the

“You’re not yet as old as I am, Horace,” said Dumbledore.

“Well, maybe you ought to think about retirement yourself,” said Slughorn bluntly. His pale gooseberry eyes had found Dumbledore’s injured hand. “Reactions not what they were, I see.”

“You’re quite right,” said Dumbledore serenely, shaking back his sleeve to reveal the tips of those burned and blackened ringers; the sight of them made the back of Harry’s neck prickle unpleasantly. “1 am undoubtedly slower than I was. But on the other hand…”

He shrugged and spread his hands wide, as though to say that age had its compensations, and Harry noticed a ring on his uninjured hand that he had never seen Dumbledore wear before: It was large, rather clumsily made of what looked like gold, and was set with a heavy black stone that had cracked down the middle. Slughorn’s eyes lingered for a moment on the ring too, and Harry saw a tiny frown momentarily crease his wide forehead.

“So, all these precautions against intruders, Horace… are they for the Death Eaters’ benefit, or mine?” asked Dumbledore.

“What would the Death Eaters want with a poor broken-down old buffer like me?” demanded Slughorn.

“I imagine that they would want you to turn your considerable talents to coercion, torture, and murder,” said Dumbledore. “Are you really telling me that they haven’t come recruiting yet?”

Slughorn eyed Dumbledore balefully for a moment, then muttered, “I haven’t given them the chance. I’ve been on the move for a year. Never stay in one place more than a week. Move from Mug-gle house to Muggle house — the owners of this place are on holiday in the Canary Islands — it’s been very pleasant, I’ll be sorry to leave. It’s quite easy once you know how, one simple Freezing Charm on these absurd burglar alarms they use instead of Sneako-scopes and make sure the neighbors don’t spot you bringing in the piano.”

“Ingenious,” said Dumbledore. “But it sounds a rather tiring existence for a broken-down old buffer in search of a quiet life. Now, if you were to return to Hogwarts —”

“If you’re going to tell me my life would be more peaceful at that pestilential school, you can save your breath, Albus! I might have been in hiding, but some funny rumors have reached me since Dolores Umbridge left! If that’s how you treat teachers these days —”

“Professor Umbridge ran afoul of our centaur herd,” said Dumbledore. “I think you, Horace, would have known better than to stride into the forest and call a horde of angry centaurs ‘filthy half-breeds.’”

“That’s what she did, did she?” said Slughorn. “Idiotic woman. Never liked her.”

Harry chuckled and both Dumbledore and Slughorn looked round at him.

“Sorry,” Harry said hastily. “It’s just — I didn’t like her either.”

Dumbledore stood up rather suddenly.

“Are you leaving?” asked Slughorn at once, looking hopeful.

“No, I was wondering whether I might use your bathroom,” said Dumbledore.

“Oh,” said Slughorn, clearly disappointed. “Second on the left down the hall.”

Dumbledore strode from the room. Once the door had closed behind him, there was silence. After a few moments, Slughorn got to his feet but seemed uncertain what to do with himself. He shot a furtive look at Harry, then crossed to the fire and turned his back on it, warming his wide behind.

“Don’t think I don’t know why he’s brought you,” he said abruptly.

Harry merely looked at Slughorn. Slughorn’s watery eyes slid over Harry’s scar, this time taking in the rest of his face.

“You look very like your father.”

“Yeah, I’ve been told,” said Harry.

“Except for your eyes. You’ve got —-”

“My mother’s eyes, yeah.” Harry had heard it so often he found it a bit wearing.

“Hmpf. Yes, well. You shouldn’t have favorites as a teacher, of course, but she was one of mine. Your mother,” Slughorn added, in answer to Harrys questioning look. “Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my House. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

“Which was your House?”

“I was Head of Slytherin,” said Slughorn. “Oh, now,” he went on quickly, seeing the expression on Harry’s face and wagging a stubby ringer at him, “don’t go holding that against me! You’ll be Gryffindor like her, I suppose? Yes, it usually goes in families. Not always, though. Ever heard of Sirius Black? You must have done — been in the papers for the last couple of years — died a few weeks ago —”

It was as though an invisible hand had twisted Harry’s intestines and held them tight.

“Well, anyway, he was a big pal of your father’s at school. The whole Black family had been in my House, but Sirius ended up in Gryffindor! Shame — he was a talented boy. I got his brother, Regulus, when he came along, but I’d have liked the set.”

He sounded like an enthusiastic collector who had been outbid at auction. Apparently lost in memories, he gazed at the opposite wall, turning idly on the spot to ensure an even heat on his backside.

“Your mother was Muggle-born, of course. Couldn’t believe it when I found out. Thought she must have been pure-blood, she was so good.”

“One of my best friends is Muggle-born,” said Harry, “and she’s the best in our year.”

“Funny how that sometimes happens, isn’t it?” said Slughorn.

“Not really,” said Harry coldly.

Slughorn looked down at him in surprise. “You mustn’t think I’m prejudiced!” he said. “No, no, no! Haven’t I just said your mother was one of my all-time favorite students? And there was Dirk Cresswell in the year after her too — now Head of the Goblin Liaison Office, of course — another Muggle-born, a very gifted student, and still gives me excellent inside information on the goings-on at Gringotts!”

He bounced up and down a little, smiling in a self-satisfied way, and pointed at the many glittering photograph frames on the dresser, each peopled with tiny moving occupants.

“All ex-students, all signed. You’ll notice Barnabas Cuffe, editor of the Daily Prophet, he’s always interested to hear my take on the day’s news. And

Ambrosius Flume, of Honeydukes — a hamper every birthday, and all because I was able to give him an introduction to Ciceron Harkisss who gave him his first job! And at the back — you’ll see her if you just crane your neck — that’s Gwenog Jones, who of course captains the Holyhead Harpies… People are always astonished to hear I’m on first-name terms with the Harpies, and free tickets whenever I want them!”

This thought seemed to cheer him up enormously.

“And all these people know where to find you, to send you stuff?” asked Harry, who could not help wondering why the Death Eaters had not yet tracked down Slughorn if hampers of sweets, Quidditch tickets, and visitors craving his advice and opinions could find him.

The smile slid from Slughorn’s face as quickly as the blood from his walls.

“Of course not,” he said, looking down at Harry. “I have been out of touch with everybody for a year.”

Harry had the impression that the words shocked Slughorn himself; he looked quite unsettled for a moment. Then he shrugged.

“Still… the prudent wizard keeps his head down in such times. All very well for Dumbledore to talk, but taking up a post at Hog-warts just now would be tantamount to declaring my public allegiance to the Order of the

Phoenix! And while I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, I don’t personally fancy the mortality rate —”

“You don’t have to join the Order to teach at Hogwarts,” said Harry, who could not quite keep a note of derision out of his voice: It was hard to sympathize with Slughorn’s cosseted existence when he remembered Sirius, crouching in a cave and living on rats. “Most of the teachers aren’t in it, and none of them has ever been killed — well, unless you count Quirrell, and he got what he deserved seeing as he was working with Voldemort.”

Harry had been sure Slughorn would be one of those wizards who could not bear to hear Voldemort’s name spoken aloud, and was not disappointed: Slughorn gave a shudder and a squawk of protest, which Harry ignored.

“I reckon the staff are safer than most people while Dumble-dore’s headmaster; he’s supposed to be the only one Voldemort ever feared, isn’t he?” Harry went on.

Slughorn gazed into space for a moment or two: He seemed to be thinking over Harry’s words.

“Well, yes, it is true that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has never sought a fight with Dumbledore,” he muttered grudgingly. “And I suppose one could argue that as I have not joined the Death Kilters, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named can hardly count me a friend… in which case, I might well be safer a little closer to Albus… I cannot pretend that Amelia Bones’s death did not shake me… If she, with all her Ministry contacts and protection…”

Dumbledore reentered the room and Slughorn jumped as though he had forgotten he was in the house.

“Oh, there you are, Albus,” he said. “You’ve been a very long lime. Upset stomach?”

“No, I was merely reading the Muggle magazines,” said Dumbledore. “I do love knitting patterns. Well, Harry, we have trespassed upon Horace’s hospitality quite long enough; I think it is time for us to leave.”

Not at all reluctant to obey, Harry jumped to his feet. Slughorn sinned taken aback.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes, indeed. I think I know a lost cause when I see one.”

“Lost…?”

Slughorn seemed agitated. He twiddled his fat thumbs and fidgeted as he watched Dumbledore fasten his traveling cloak, and Harry zip up his jacket.

“Well, I’m sorry you don’t want the job, Horace,” said Dumbledore, raising his uninjured hand in a farewell salute. “Hogwarts would have been glad to see you back again. Our greatly increased security notwithstanding, you will always be welcome to visit, should you wish to.”

“Yes… well… very gracious… as I say…”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Bye,” said Harry.

They were at the front door when there was a shout from behind them.

“All right, all right, I’ll do it!”

Dumbledore turned to see Slughorn standing breathless in the doorway to the sitting room.

“You will come out of retirement?”

“Yes, yes,” said Slughorn impatiently. “I must be mad, but yes.”

“Wonderful,” said Dumbledore, beaming. “Then, Horace, we shall see you on the first of September.”

“Yes, I daresay you will,” grunted Slughorn.

As they set off down the garden path, Slughorn’s voice floated after them, “I’ll want a pay rise, Dumbledore!”

Dumbledore chuckled. The garden gate swung shut behind them, and they set off back down the hill through the dark and the swirling mist.

“Well done, Harry,” said Dumbledore.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Harry in surprise.

“Oh yes you did. You showed Horace exactly how much he stands to gain by returning to Hogwarts. Did you like him?”

“Er…”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.

“Horace,” said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, “likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, sometimes for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping

some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystallized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin liaison Office.”

Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.

“I tell you all this,” Dumbledore continued, “not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; ‘the Boy Who Lived’… or, as they call you these days, ‘the Chosen One.’”

At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of words he had heard a few weeks ago, words that had a horrible and particular meaning to him: Neither can live while the other survives…

Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.

“This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm.”

Braced this time, Harry was ready for the Apparition, but still found it unpleasant. When the pressure disappeared and he found himself able to breathe again, he was standing in a country lane beside Dumbledore and

looking ahead to the crooked silhouette of his second favorite building in the world: the Burrow. In spite of the feeling of dread that had just swept through him, his spirits could not help but lift at the sight of it. Ron was in there… and so was Mrs. Weasley, who could cook better than anyone he knew…

“If you don’t mind, Harry,” said Dumbledore, as they passed through the gate, “I’d like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?”

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.

“I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have been proud of you.”

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think he could stand to discuss Sirius; it had been painful enough to hear Uncle Vernon say “His godfather’s dead?” and even worse to hear Siriuss name thrown out casually by Slughorn.

“It was cruel,” said Dumbledore softly, “that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship.”

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore’s hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys’ lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness i hat he had come to associate with dementors.

“It’s just hard,” Harry said finally, in a low voice, “to realize he won’t write to me again.”

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about discovering his godfather… and now the post owls would never bring him that comfort again…

“Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before,” said Dumbledore gently. “Naturally, the loss is devastat-ing…

“But while I was at the Dursleys’…” interrupted Harry, his voice growing stronger, “I realized I cant shut myself away or — or crack up. Sirius wouldn’t have wanted that, would he? And anyway, life’s too short… Look at Madam Bones, look at Emmeline Vance… It could be me next, couldn’t it?

But if it is,” he said fiercely, now looking straight into Dumbledore’s blue eyes gleaming in the wandlight, “I’ll make sure I take as many Death Eaters with me as I can, and Voldemort too if I can manage it.”

“Spoken both like your mother and father’s son and Sirius’s true godson!” said Dumbledore, with an approving pat on Harry’s back. “I take my hat off to you — or I would, if I were not afraid of showering you in spiders.

“And now, Harry, on a closely related subject… I gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?”

“Yes,” said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster.

“Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?”

“Yes,” said Harry again. “And now everyone knows that I’m the one —

“No, they do not,” interrupted Dumbledore. “There are only two people in the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you.

“Now, I think I am correct in saying that you have not told anybody that you know what the prophecy said?”

“No,” said Harry.

“A wise decision, on the whole,” said Dumbledore. “Although I think you ought to relax it in favor of your friends, Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger. Yes,” he continued, when Harry looked startled, “I think they ought to know. You do them a disservice by not confiding something this important to them.”

“I didn’t want —”

“— to worry or frighten them?” said Dumbledore, surveying Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles. “Or perhaps, to confess that you yourself are worried and frightened? You need your friends, Harry. As you so rightly said, Sirius would not have wanted you to shut yourself away.”

Harry said nothing, but Dumbledore did not seem to require an answer. He continued, “On a different, though related, subject, it is my wish that you take private lessons with me this year.”

“Private — with you?” said Harry, surprised out of his preoccupied silence.

“Yes. I think it is time that I took a greater hand in your education.”

What will you be teaching me, sir?”

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” said Dumbledore airily.

Harry waited hopefully, but Dumbledore did not elaborate, so ho asked something else that had been bothering him slightly.

“If I’m having lessons with you, I won’t have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape, will I?”

”Professor Snape, Harry — and no, you will not.”

“Good,” said Harry in relief, “because they were a —”

He stopped, careful not to say what he really thought.

“I think the word ‘fiasco’ would be a good one here,” said Dumbledore, nodding.

Harry laughed.

“Well, that means I won’t see much of Professor Snape from now on,” he said, “because he won’t let me carry on Potions unless I get ‘Outstanding’ in my OWL., which I know I haven’t.”

“Don’t count your owls before they are delivered,” said Dumbledore gravely. “Which, now I think of it, ought to be some time later today. Now, two more things, Harry, before we part.

“Firstly, I wish you to keep your Invisibility Cloak with you at all i imes from this moment onward. Even within Hogwarts itself. Just in case, you understand me?”

Harry nodded.

“And lastly, while you stay here, the Burrow has been given the highest security the Ministry of Magic can provide. These measures have caused a certain amount of inconvenience to Arthur and Molly — all their post, for instance, is being searched at the Ministry before being sent on. They do not mind in the slightest, for their only concern is your safety. However, it would be poor repayment if you risked your neck while staying with them.”

“I understand,” said Harry quickly.

“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door and stepping out into the yard. “I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are.”

CHAPTER THREE

THE LETTERS FROM NO ONE

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry his

longest-ever punishment. By the time he was allowed out of his cupboard

again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his

new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, first time

out on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet

Drive on her crutches.

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley’s gang,

who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and

Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and

stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite

happy to join in Dudley’s favorite sport: Harry Hunting.

This was why Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house,

wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where he

could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came he would be going off

to secondary school and, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be

with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon’s old private

school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the

other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley

thought this was very funny.

“They stuff people’s heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall,”

he told Harry. “Want to come upstairs and practice?”

“No, thanks,” said Harry. “The poor toilet’s never had anything as

horrible as your head down it — it might be sick.” Then he ran, before

Dudley could work out what he’d said.

One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings

uniform, leaving Harry at Mrs. Figg’s. Mrs. Figg wasn ‘t as bad as

usual. It turned out she’d broken her leg tripping over one of her cats,

24

and she didn’t seem quite as fond of them as before. She let Harry watch

television and gave him a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though

she’d had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in

his brand-new uniform. Smeltings’ boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange

knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried

knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren’t

looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life.

As he looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said

gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst

into tears and said she couldn’t believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins, he

looked so handsome and grown-up. Harry didn’t trust himself to speak. He

thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to

laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry

went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in

the sink. He went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like

dirty rags swimming in gray water.

“What’s this?” he asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always

did if he dared to ask a question.

“Your new school uniform,” she said.

Harry looked in the bowl again.

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

“DotA be stupid,” snapped Aunt Petunia. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old

things gray for you. It’ll look just like everyone else’s when I’ve

finished.”

Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. He sat

down at the table and tried not to think about how he was going to look

on his first day at Stonewall High — like he was wearing bits of old

elephant skin, probably.

Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the

smell from Harry’s new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as

usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere,

25

on the table.

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

doormat.

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

“Make Harry get it.”

“Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Dudley get it.”

“Poke him with your Smelting stick, Dudley.”

Harry dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things

lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon’s sister Marge, who was

vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a

bill, and — a letter for Harry.

Harry picked it up and stared at it, his heart twanging like a giant

elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who

would? He had no friends, no other relatives — he didn’t belong to the

library, so he’d never even got rude notes asking for books back. Yet

here it was, a letter, addressed so plainly there could be no mistake:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the

address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.

Turning the envelope over, his hand trembling, Harry saw a purple wax

seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake

surrounding a large letter H.

26

“Hurry up, boy!” shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. “What are you

doing, checking for letter bombs?” He chuckled at his own joke.

Harry went back to the kitchen, still staring at his letter. He handed

Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, sat down, and slowly began to

open the yellow envelope.

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

the postcard.

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

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

Harry was on the point of unfolding his letter, which was written on the

same heavy parchment as the envelope, when it was jerked sharply out of

his hand by Uncle Vernon.

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

“Who’d be writing to you?” sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter open

with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster

than a set of traffic lights. And it didn’t stop there. Within seconds

it was the grayish white of old porridge.

“P-P-Petunia!” he gasped.

Dudley tried to grab the letter to read it, but Uncle Vernon held it

high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took it curiously and read the first

line. For a moment it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her

throat and made a choking noise.

“Vernon! Oh my goodness — Vernon!”

They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry and

Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn’t used to being ignored. He

gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

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

Harry furiously, “as it’s mine.”

“Get out, both of you,” croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letter back

inside its envelope.

27

Harry didn’t move.

I WANT MY LETTER!” he shouted.

“Let me see it!” demanded Dudley.

“OUT!” roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the

scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall, slamming the

kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but

silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry,

his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at

the crack between door and floor.

“Vernon,” Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, “look at the

address — how could they possibly know where he sleeps? You don’t think

they’re watching the house?”

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

wildly.

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

want –”

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

kitchen.

“No,” he said finally. “No, we’ll ignore it. If they don’t get an

answer… Yes, that’s best… we won’t do anything….

“But –”

“I’m not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn’t we swear when we took

him in we’d stamp out that dangerous nonsense?”

That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he’d

never done before; he visited Harry in his cupboard.

“Where’s my letter?” said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed

through the door. “Who’s writing to me?”

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

“I have burned it.”

28

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

“SILENCE!” yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the

ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a

smile, which looked quite painful.

“Er — yes, Harry — about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been

thinking… you’re really getting a bit big for it… we think it might

be nice if you moved into Dudley’s second bedroom.

“Why?” said Harry.

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

now.”

The Dursleys’ house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt

Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon’s sister, Marge), one

where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things

that wouldn’t fit into his first bedroom. It only took Harry one trip

upstairs to move everything he owned from the cupboard to this room. He

sat down on the bed and stared around him. Nearly everything in here was

broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working

tank Dudley had once driven over the next door neighbor’s dog; in the

corner was Dudley’s first-ever television set, which he’d put his foot

through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large

birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school

for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end all bent

because Dudley had sat on it. Other shelves were full of books. They

were the only things in the room that looked as though they’d never been

touched.

From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, I don’t

want him in there… I need that room… make him get out….”

Harry sighed and stretched out on the bed. Yesterday he’d have given

anything to be up here. Today he’d rather be back in his cupboard with

that letter than up here without it.

Next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in

shock. He’d screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been

sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the

greenhouse roof, and he still didn’t have his room back. Harry was

29

thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he’d opened the

letter in the hall. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each

other darkly.

When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice

to Harry, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with

his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted, “There’s

another one! ‘Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive –’”

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leapt from his seat and ran down the

hall, Harry right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the

ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact

that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind. After a

minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the

Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with

Harry’s letter clutched in his hand.

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

“Dudley — go — just go.”

Harry walked round and round his new room. Someone knew he had moved out

of his cupboard and they seemed to know he hadn’t received his first

letter. Surely that meant they’d try again? And this time he’d make sure

they didn’t fail. He had a plan.

The repaired alarm clock rang at six o’clock the next morning. Harry

turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn’t wake the

Dursleys. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights.

He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and

get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept

across the dark hall toward the front door –

Harry leapt into the air; he’d trodden on something big and squashy on

the doormat — something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror Harry realized that the

big, squashy something had been his uncle’s face. Uncle Vernon had been

lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making

sure that Harry didn’t do exactly what he’d been trying to do. He

shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make

a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the

time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon’s lap.

30

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink.

I want –” he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into

pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didnt go to work that day. He

stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

“See,” he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, “if

they can’t deliver them they’ll just give up.”

“I’m not sure that’ll work, Vernon.”

“Oh, these people’s minds work in strange ways, Petunia, they’re not

like you and me,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the

piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry. As they

couldn’t go through the mail slot they had been pushed under the door,

slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small

window in the downstairs bathroom.

Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got

out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and

back doors so no one could go out. He hummed “Tiptoe Through the Tulips”

as he worked, and jumped at small noises.

On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to

Harry found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each

of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt

Petunia through the living room window. While Uncle Vernon made furious

telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone

to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

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

amazement.

On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking

tired and rather ill, but happy.

“No post on Sundays,” he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade

on his newspapers, “no damn letters today –”

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught

him sharply on the back of the head. Next moment, thirty or forty

31

letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys

ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one.

“Out! OUT!”

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and threw him into the hall.

When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their

faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters

still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

“That does it,” said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling

great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. I want you all back

here in five minutes ready to leave. We’re going away. Just pack some

clothes. No arguments!”

He looked so dangerous with half his mustache missing that no one dared

argue. Ten minutes later they had wrenched their way through the

boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.

Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the

head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and

computer in his sports bag.

They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn’t dare ask where they

were going. Every now and then Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and

drive in the opposite direction for a while. “Shake’em off… shake ‘em

off,” he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn’t stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall Dudley was

howling. He’d never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry, he’d

missed five television programs he’d wanted to see, and he’d never gone

so long without blowing up an alien on his computer.

Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the

outskirts of a big city. Dudley and Harry shared a room with twin beds

and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored but Harry stayed awake, sitting on

the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and

wondering….

They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for

breakfast the next day. They had just finished when the owner of the

hotel came over to their table.

“‘Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter? Only I got about an ‘undred

32

of these at the front desk.”

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

Mr. H. Potter

Room 17

Railview Hotel

Cokeworth

Harry made a grab for the letter but Uncle Vernon knocked his hand out

of the way. The woman stared.

“I’ll take them,” said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following

her from the dining room.

Wouldn’t it be better just to go home, dear?” Aunt Petunia suggested

timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn’t seem to hear her. Exactly

what he was looking for, none of them knew. He drove them into the

middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in

the car, and off they went again. The same thing happened in the middle

of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of

a multilevel parking garage.

“Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that

afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside

the car, and disappeared.

It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dud ley

sniveled.

“It’s Monday,” he told his mother. “The Great Humberto’s on tonight. I

want to stay somewhere with a television. ”

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday — and you

could usually count on Dudley to know the days the week, because of

television — then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry’s eleventh birthday. Of

course, his birthdays were never exactly fun — last year, the Dursleys

had given him a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon’s old socks.

Still, you weren’t eleven every day.

33

Uncle Vernon was back and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long,

thin package and didn’t answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he’d

bought.

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

It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what

looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was

the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was

certain, there was no television in there.

“Storm forecast for tonight!” said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his

hands together. “And this gentleman’s kindly agreed to lend us his

boat!”

A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather

wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below

them.

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

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their

necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like

hours they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding,

led the way to the broken-down house.

The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed, the wind

whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was

damp and empty. There were only two rooms.

Uncle Vernon’s rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four

bananas. He tried to start a fire but the empty chip bags just smoked

and shriveled up.

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

He was in a very good mood. Obviously he thought nobody stood a chance

of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry privately

agreed, though the thought didn’t cheer him up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the

high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the

filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second

34

room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle

Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, and Harry was left to find

the softest bit of floor he could and to curl up under the thinnest,

most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry

couldn’t sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable,

his stomach rumbling with hunger. Dudley’s snores were drowned by the

low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of

Dudley’s watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat

wrist, told Harry he’d be eleven in ten minutes’ time. He lay and

watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would

remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go. Harry heard something creak outside. He hoped the

roof wasn’t going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Four minutes to go. Maybe the house in Privet Drive would be so full of

letters when they got back that he’d be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go. Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like

that? And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was

the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he’d be eleven. Thirty seconds… twenty … ten…

nine — maybe he’d wake Dudley up, just to annoy him — three… two…

one…

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright, staring at the

door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE KEEPER OF THE KEYS

BOOM. They knocked again. Dudley jerked awake. “Where’s the cannon?” he

said stupidly.

There was a crash behind them and Uncle Vernon came skidding into the

room. He was holding a rifle in his hands — now they knew what had been

in the long, thin package he had brought with them.

35

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

There was a pause. Then –

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and

with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor.

A giant of a man was standing in the doorway. His face was almost

completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled

beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles

under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just

brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it

easily back into its frame. The noise of the storm outside dropped a

little. He turned to look at them all.

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

journey…”

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

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

Dudley squeaked and ran to hide behind his mother, who was crouching,

terrified, behind Uncle Vernon.

“An’ here’s Harry!” said the giant.

Harry looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face and saw that the

beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

“Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” said the giant. “Yeh look a

lot like yet dad, but yeh’ve got yet mom’s eyes.”

Uncle Vernon made a funny rasping noise.

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

entering!”

36

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” said the giant; he reached over

the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon’s hands, bent

it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it

into a corner of the room.

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

“Anyway — Harry,” said the giant, turning his back on the Dursleys, “a

very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here — I mighta sat on

it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly

squashed box. Harry opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a

large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in

green icing.

Harry looked up at the giant. He meant to say thank you, but the words

got lost on the way to his mouth, and what he said instead was, “Who are

you?”

The giant chuckled.

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

Grounds at Hogwarts.”

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

“What about that tea then, eh?” he said, rubbing his hands together.

“I’d not say no ter summat stronger if yeh’ve got it, mind.”

His eyes fell on the empty grate with the shriveled chip bags in it and

he snorted. He bent down over the fireplace; they couldn’t see what he

was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire

there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Harry felt

the warmth wash over him as though he’d sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and

began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a

copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several

chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from

before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and

smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was

working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt

37

sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgeted a little. Uncle Vernon said

sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”

The giant chuckled darkly.

“Yet great puddin’ of a son don’ need fattenin’ anymore, Dursley, don’

worry.”

He passed the sausages to Harry, who was so hungry he had never tasted

anything so wonderful, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off the

giant. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said,

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t really know who you are.”

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

hand.

“Call me Hagrid,” he said, “everyone does. An’ like I told yeh, I’m

Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts — yeh’ll know all about Hogwarts, o’ course.

“Er — no,” said Harry.

Hagrid looked shocked.

“Sorry,” Harry said quickly.

“Sony?” barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the Dursleys, who shrank back

into the shadows. “It’ s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren’t

gettin’ yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn’t even know abou’

Hogwarts, fer cryin’ out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents

learned it all?”

“All what?” asked Harry.

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

He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut.

The Dursleys were cowering against the wall.

“Do you mean ter tell me,” he growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy –

this boy! — knows nothin’ abou’ — about ANYTHING?”

Harry thought this was going a bit far. He had been to school, after

all, and his marks weren’t bad.

38

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

Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, “About our world, I mean. Your

world. My world. Yer parents’ world.”

“What world?”

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode.

“DURSLEY!” he boomed.

Uncle Vernon, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded

like “Mimblewimble.” Hagrid stared wildly at Harry.

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

famous. You’re famous.”

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

“Yeh don’ know… yeh don’ know…” Hagrid ran his fingers through his

hair, fixing Harry with a bewildered stare.

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

Uncle Vernon suddenly found his voice.

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

boy anything!”

A braver man than Vernon Dursley would have quailed under the furious

look Hagrid now gave him; when Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled

with rage.

“You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore

left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’

you’ve kept it from him all these years?”

“Kept what from me?” said Harry eagerly.

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

Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror.

39

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

wizard.”

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

could be heard.

“– a what?” gasped Harry.

“A wizard, o’ course,” said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which

groaned and sank even lower, “an’ a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once

yeh’ve been trained up a bit. With a mum an’ dad like yours, what else

would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”

Harry stretched out his hand at last to take the yellowish envelope,

addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock,

The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme

Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts

School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all

necessary books and equipment.

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

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

Questions exploded inside Harry’s head like fireworks and he couldn’t

decide which to ask first. After a few minutes he stammered, “What does

it mean, they await my owl?”

“Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” said Hagrid, clapping a hand to

his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet

40

another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl — a real, live,

rather ruffled-looking owl — a long quill, and a roll of parchment.

With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note that Harry could

read upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re Well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its

beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he

came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the

telephone.

Harry realized his mouth was open and closed it quickly.

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

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

“He’s not going,” he said.

Hagrid grunted.

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

“A what?” said Harry, interested.

“A Muggle,” said Hagrid, “it’s what we call nonmagic folk like thern.

An’ it’s your bad luck you grew up in a family o’ the biggest Muggles I

ever laid eyes on.”

“We swore when we took him in we’d put a stop to that rubbish,” said

Uncle Vernon, “swore we’d stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!”

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

“Knew!” shrieked Aunt Petunia suddenly. “Knew! Of course we knew! How

41

could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a

letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school-and came

home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups

into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was — a freak!

But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that,

they were proud of having a witch in the family!”

She stopped to draw a deep breath and then went ranting on. It seemed

she had been wanting to say all this for years.

“Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and

had you, and of course I knew you’d be just the same, just as strange,

just as — as — abnormal — and then, if you please, she went and got

herself blown up and we got landed with you!”

Harry had gone very white. As soon as he found his voice he said, “Blown

up? You told me they died in a car crash!”

“CAR CRASH!” roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the Dursleys

scuttled back to their corner. “How could a car crash kill Lily an’

James Potter? It’s an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowin’ his

own story when every kid in our world knows his name!” “But why? What

happened?” Harry asked urgently.

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

“I never expected this,” he said, in a low, worried voice. “I had no

idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin’ hold of

yeh, how much yeh didn’t know. Ah, Harry, I don’ know if I’m the right

person ter tell yeh — but someone 3 s gotta — yeh can’t go off ter

Hogwarts not knowin’.”

He threw a dirty look at the Dursleys.

“Well, it’s best yeh know as much as I can tell yeh — mind, I can’t

tell yeh everythin’, it’s a great myst’ry, parts of it….”

He sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, “It

begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it’s incredible

yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows –”

“Who? ”

42

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

“Why not?”

“Gulpin’ gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is

difficult. See, there was this wizard who went… bad. As bad as you

could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was…”

Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

“Could you write it down?” Harry suggested.

“Nah -can’t spell it. All right — Voldemort. ” Hagrid shuddered. “Don’

make me say it again. Anyway, this — this wizard, about twenty years

ago now, started lookin’ fer followers. Got ‘em, too — some were

afraid, some just wanted a bit o’ his power, ’cause he was gettin’

himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn’t know who ter trust,

didn’t dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches… terrible

things happened. He was takin’ over. ‘Course, some stood up to him –

an’ he killed ‘em. Horribly. One o’ the only safe places left was

Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore’s the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of.

Didn’t dare try takin’ the school, not jus’ then, anyway.

“Now, yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew.

Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst’ry is why

You-Know-Who never tried to get ‘em on his side before… probably knew

they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin’ ter do with the

Dark Side.

“Maybe he thought he could persuade ‘em… maybe he just wanted ‘em

outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where

you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old.

He came ter yer house an’ — an’ –”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew

his nose with a sound like a foghorn.

“Sorry,” he said. “But it’s that sad — knew yer mum an’ dad, an’ nicer

people yeh couldn’t find — anyway…”

“You-Know-Who killed ‘em. An’ then — an’ this is the real myst’ry of

the thing — he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of

it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin’ by then. But he couldn’t

43

do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no

ordinary cut. That’s what yeh get when a Powerful, evil curse touches

yeh — took care of yer mum an’ dad an’ yer house, even — but it didn’t

work on you, an’ that’s why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after

he decided ter kill ‘em, no one except you, an’ he’d killed some o’ the

best witches an’ wizards of the age — the McKinnons, the Bones, the

Prewetts — an’ you was only a baby, an’ you lived.”

Something very painful was going on in Harry’s mind. As Hagrid’s story

came to a close, he saw again the blinding flash of green light, more

clearly than he had ever remembered it before — and he remembered

something else, for the first time in his life: a high, cold, cruel

laugh.

Hagrid was watching him sadly.

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

yeh ter this lot…”

“Load of old tosh,” said Uncle Vernon. Harry jumped; he had almost

forgotten that the Dursleys were there. Uncle Vernon certainly seemed to

have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were

clenched.

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

strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn’t have cured

– and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no

denying it, and the world’s better off without them in my opinion –

asked for all they got, getting mixed up with these wizarding types –

just what I expected, always knew they’d come to a sticky end –”

But at that moment, Hagrid leapt from the sofa and drew a battered pink

umbrella from inside his coat. Pointing this at Uncle Vernon like a

sword, he said, “I’m warning you, Dursley -I’m warning you — one more

word… ”

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant,

Uncle Vernon’s courage failed again; he flattened himself against the

wall and fell silent.

“That’s better,” said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on

the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor.

44

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

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

“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter

kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see…

he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?

“Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough

human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his

time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back

ter ours. Some of ‘em came outta kinda trances. Don~ reckon they

could’ve done if he was comin’ back.

“Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers.

Too weak to carry on. ‘Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry.

There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on — I dunno

what it was, no one does — but somethin’ about you stumped him, all

right.”

Hagrid looked at Harry with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes, but

Harry, instead of feeling pleased and proud, felt quite sure there had

been a horrible mistake. A wizard? Him? How could he possibly be? He’d

spent his life being clouted by Dudley, and bullied by Aunt Petunia and

Uncle Vernon; if he was really a wizard, why hadn’t they been turned

into warty toads every time they’d tried to lock him in his cupboard? If

he’d once defeated the greatest sorcerer in the world, how come Dudley

had always been able to kick him around like a football?

“Hagrid,” he said quietly, “I think you must have made a mistake. I

don’t think I can be a wizard.”

To his surprise, Hagrid chuckled.

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

angry?”

Harry looked into the fire. Now he came to think about it… every odd

thing that had ever made his aunt and uncle furious with him had

happened when he, Harry, had been upset or angry… chased by Dudley’s

gang, he had somehow found himself out of their reach… dreading going

to school with that ridiculous haircut, he’d managed to make it grow

back… and the very last time Dudley had hit him, hadn’t he got his

45

revenge, without even realizing he was doing it? Hadn’t he set a boa

constrictor on him?

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

beaming at him.

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

right famous at Hogwarts.”

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

“Haven’t I told you he’s not going?” he hissed. “He’s going to Stonewall

High and he’ll be grateful for it. I’ve read those letters and he needs

all sorts of rubbish — spell books and wands and –”

“If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won’t stop him,” growled

Hagrid. “Stop Lily an’ James Potter’ s son goin’ ter Hogwarts! Yer mad.

His name’s been down ever since he was born. He’s off ter the finest

school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he

won’t know himself. He’ll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a

change, an’ he’ll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had

Albus Dumbled–”

“I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM

MAGIC TRICKS!”

yelled Uncle Vernon.

But he had finally gone too far. Hagrid seized his umbrella and whirled

it over his head, “NEVER,” he thundered, “- INSULT- ALBUS- DUMBLEDOREIN-

FRONT- OF- ME!”

He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley

– there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a

sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with

his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned

his back on them, Harry saw a curly pig’s tail poking through a hole in

his trousers.

Uncle Vernon roared. Pulling Aunt Petunia and Dudley into the other

room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door

behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard.

46

“Shouldn’ta lost me temper,” he said ruefully, “but it didn’t work

anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like

a pig anyway there wasn’t much left ter do.”

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

“Be grateful if yeh didn’t mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts,” he

said. “I’m — er — not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was

allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff

– one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job

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

“Oh, well — I was at Hogwarts meself but I — er — got expelled, ter

tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’

everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man,

Dumbledore.” “Why were you expelled?”

“It’s gettin’ late and we’ve got lots ter do tomorrow,” said Hagrid

loudly. “Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an’ that.”

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

“You can kip under that,” he said. “Don’ mind if it wriggles a bit, I

think I still got a couple o’ dormice in one o’ the pockets.”

CHAPTER FIVE

DIAGON ALLEY

Harry woke early the next morning. Although he could tell it was

daylight, he kept his eyes shut tight.

“It was a dream, he told himself firmly. “I dreamed a giant called

Hagrid came to tell me I was going to a school for wizards. When I open

my eyes I’ll be at home in my cupboard.”

There was suddenly a loud tapping noise.

And there’s Aunt Petunia knocking on the door, Harry thought, his heart

sinking. But he still didn’t open his eyes. It had been such a good

47

dream.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

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

He sat up and Hagrid’s heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of

sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed

sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper

held in its beak.

Harry scrambled to his feet, so happy he felt as though a large balloon

was swelling inside him. He went straight to the window and jerked it

open. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who

didn’t wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to

attack Hagrid’s coat.

“Don’t do that.”

Harry tried to wave the owl out of the way, but it snapped its beak

fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

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

“Pay him,” Hagrid grunted into the sofa.

“What?”

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

Hagrid’s coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets — bunches of

keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags…

finally, Harry pulled out a handful of strange-looking coins.

“Give him five Knuts,” said Hagrid sleepily.

“Knuts?”

“The little bronze ones.”

Harry counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg

so Harry could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then

he flew off through the open window.

48

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched.

“Best be Off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an’ buy

all yer stuff fer school.”

Harry was turning over the wizard coins and looking at them. He had just

thought of something that made him feel as though the happy balloon

inside him had got a puncture.

“Um — Hagrid?”

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

“I haven’t got any money — and you heard Uncle Vernon last night … he

won’t pay for me to go and learn magic.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his

head. “D’yeh think yer parents didn’t leave yeh anything?”

“But if their house was destroyed –”

“They didn’ keep their gold in the house, boy! Nah, first stop fer us is

Gringotts. Wizards’ bank. Have a sausage, they’re not bad cold — an’ I

wouldn’ say no teh a bit o’ yer birthday cake, neither.”

“Wizards have banks?”

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

Harry dropped the bit of sausage he was holding.

“Goblins?”

“Yeah — so yeh’d be mad ter try an’ rob it, I’ll tell yeh that. Never

mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer

anything yeh want ter keep safe — ‘cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o’

fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts

business.” Hagrid drew himself up proudly. “He usually gets me ter do

important stuff fer him. Fetchin’ you gettin’ things from Gringotts –

knows he can trust me, see.

“Got everythin’? Come on, then.”

49

Harry followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and

the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was

still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

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

“Flew,” said Hagrid.

“Flew?”

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

got yeh.”

They settled down in the boat, Harry still staring at Hagrid, trying to

imagine him flying.

“Seems a shame ter row, though,” said Hagrid, giving Harry another of

his sideways looks. “If I was ter — er — speed things up a bit, would

yeh mind not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

“Of course not,” said Harry, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out

the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and

they sped off toward land.

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

“Spells — enchantments,” said Hagrid, unfolding his newspaper as he

spoke. “They say there’s dragons guardin’ the highsecurity vaults. And

then yeh gotta find yer way — Gringotts is hundreds of miles under

London, see. Deep under the Underground. Yeh’d die of hunger tryin’ ter

get out, even if yeh did manage ter get yer hands on summat.”

Harry sat and thought about this while Hagrid read his newspaper, the

Daily Prophet. Harry had learned from Uncle Vernon that people liked to

be left alone while they did this, but it was very difficult, he’d never

had so many questions in his life.

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

the page.

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

himself.

“‘Course,” said Hagrid. “They wanted Dumbledore fer Minister, 0 ‘

50

course, but he’d never leave Hogwarts, so old Cornelius Fudge got the

job. Bungler if ever there was one. So he pelts Dumbledore with owls

every morning, askin’ fer advice.”

“But what does a Ministry of Magic do?”

“Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there’s still

witches an’ wizards up an’ down the country.”

“Why?”

“Why? Blimey, Harry, everyone’d be wantin’ magic solutions to their

problems. Nah, we’re best left alone.”

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid

folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the

street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town

to the station. Harry couldn’t blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as

tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like

parking meters and saying loudly, “See that, Harry? Things these Muggles

dream up, eh?”

“Hagrid,” said Harry, panting a bit as he ran to keep up, “did you say

there are dragons at Gringotts?”

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

“You’d like one?”

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

They had reached the station. There was a train to London in five

minutes’ time. Hagrid, who didn’t understand “Muggle money,” as he

called it, gave the bills to Harry so he could buy their tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and

sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

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

took the parchment envelope out of his pocket.

51

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

Harry unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn’t noticed the night

before, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

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

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

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils’ clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

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

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

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

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

OTHER EQUIPMENT

52

wand cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

glass or crystal phials

telescope set

brass scales

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

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED

THEIR OWN

BROOMSTICKS

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

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

Harry had never been to London before. Although Hagrid seemed to know

where he was going, he was obviously not used to getting there in an

ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and

complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

“I don’t know how the Muggles manage without magic,” he said as they

climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined

with shops.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Harry had to do

was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores,

hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it

could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of

ordinary people. Could there really be piles of wizard gold buried miles

beneath them? Were there really shops that sold spell books and

broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that the Dursleys had

cooked up? If Harry hadn’t known that the Dursleys had no sense of

humor, he might have thought so; yet somehow, even though everything

Hagrid had told him so far was unbelievable, Harry couldn’t help

trusting him.

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

famous place.”

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn’t pointed it out,

53

Harry wouldn’t have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn’t

glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the

record shop on the other as if they couldn’t see the Leaky Cauldron at

all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and

Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered

him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were

sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was

smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old

bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The

low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know

Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a

glass, saying, “The usual, Hagrid?”

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” said Hagrid, clapping his great

hand on Harry’s shoulder and making Harry’s knees buckle.

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

be –?”

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

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

honor.”

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Harry and seized his

hand, tears in his eyes.

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

Harry didn’t know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old

woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out.

Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Harry

found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

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

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

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

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

Diggle.”

“I’ve seen you before!” said Harry, as Dedalus Diggle’s top hat fell off

in his excitement. “You bowed to me once in a shop.”

“He remembers!” cried Dedalus Diggle, looking around at everyone. “Did

you hear that? He remembers me!” Harry shook hands again and again –

Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

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

was twitching.

“Professor Quirrell!” said Hagrid. “Harry, Professor Quirrell will be

one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Harry’s hand,

“c-can’t t-tell you how p- pleased I am to meet you.”

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

“D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” muttered Professor Quirrell, as

though he’d rather not think about it. “N-not that you n-need it, eh,

P-P-Potter?” He laughed nervously. “You’ll be g-getting all your

equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires,

m-myself.” He looked terrified at the very thought.

But the others wouldn’t let Professor Quirrell keep Harry to himself. It

took almost ten minutes to get away from them all. At last, Hagrid

managed to make himself heard over the babble.

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

Doris Crockford shook Harry’s hand one last time, and Hagrid led them

through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was

nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Harry.

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell

55

was tremblin’ ter meet yeh — mind you, he’s usually tremblin’.”

“Is he always that nervous?”

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was

studyin’ outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand

experience…. They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there

was a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the same since.

Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where’s me

umbrella?”

Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming. Hagrid, meanwhile, was

counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.

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

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

The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the middle, a

small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a second later they

were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a

cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

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

He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped through the archway. Harry

looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly

back into solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop.

Cauldrons — All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver — Self-Stirring

– Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.

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

first.”

Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head in every

direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at

once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their

shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as

they passed, saying, “Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they’re

mad….”

56

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying Eeylops Owl

Emporium — Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. Several boys of

about Harry’s age had their noses pressed against a window with

broomsticks in it. “Look,” Harry heard one of them say, “the new Nimbus

Two Thousand — fastest ever –” There were shops selling robes, shops

selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Harry had never seen

before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels’ eyes,

tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion

bottles, globes of the moon….

“Gringotts,” said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other

little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a

uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

“Yeah, that’s a goblin,” said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white

stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry.

He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, very

long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were

facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved

upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

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

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a

57

vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high

stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing

coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses.

There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more

goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made

for the counter.

“Morning,” said Hagrid to a free goblin. “We’ve come ter take some money

outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”

“You have his key, Sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” said Hagrid, and he started emptying his

pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits

over the goblin’s book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Harry

watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as

glowing coals.

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

The goblin looked at it closely.

“That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” said Hagrid

importantly, throwing out his chest. “It’s about the YouKnow-What in

vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The goblin read the letter carefully.

“Very well,” he said, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will have Someone

take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog

biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward

one of the doors leading off the hall.

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

asked.

“Can’t tell yeh that,” said Hagrid mysteriously. “Very secret. Hogwarts

business. Dumbledore’s trusted me. More’n my job’s worth ter tell yeh

that.”

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Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more

marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with

flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little

railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came

hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in — Hagrid with some

difficulty — and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry

tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left,

but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way,

because Griphook wasn’t steering.

Harry’s eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them

wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a

passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late - -

they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge

stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

I never know,” Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart,

“what’s the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?”

“Stalagmite’s got an ‘m’ in it,” said Hagrid. “An’ don’ ask me questions

just now, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small

door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the

wall to stop his knees from trembling.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and

as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns

of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

“All yours,” smiled Hagrid.

All Harry’s — it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn’t have known about

this or they’d have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had

they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there

had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London.

Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a bag.

“The gold ones are Galleons,” he explained. “Seventeen silver Sickles to

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a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it’s easy enough. Right,

that should be enough fer a couple o’ terms, we’ll keep the rest safe

for yeh.” He turned to Griphook. “Vault seven hundred and thirteen now,

please, and can we go more slowly?”

“One speed only,” said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became

colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went

rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to

try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and

pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

“Stand back,” said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with

one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

“If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they’d be sucked through

the door and trapped in there,” said Griphook.

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

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

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault,

Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous

jewels at the very least — but at first he thought it was empty. Then

he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on

the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry

longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.

“Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don’t talk to me on the way

back, it’s best if I keep me mouth shut,” said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside

Gringotts. Harry didn’t know where to run first now that he had a bag

full of money. He didn’t have to know how many Galleons there were to a

pound to know that he was holding more money than he’d had in his whole

life — more money than even Dudley had ever had.

“Might as well get yer uniform,” said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam

Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I

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slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them

Gringotts carts.” He did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam

Malkin’s shop alone, feeling nervous.

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

“Hogwarts, clear?” she said, when Harry started to speak. “Got the lot

here — another young man being fitted up just now, in fact. ”

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on

a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam

Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him) slipped a long robe over his

head, and began to pin it to the right length.

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

“Yes,” said Harry.

“My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street

looking at wands,” said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. “Then

I’m going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don’t see why

first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting

me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.”

Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.

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

“No,” said Harry.

“Play Quidditch at all?”

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

“I do — Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my

house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?”

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

“Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know

I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been — imagine being in

Hufflepuff, I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?” “Mmm,” said Harry, wishing

he could say something a bit more interesting.

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“I say, look at that man!” said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the

front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing

at two large ice creams to show he couldn’t come in.

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

“He works at Hogwarts.”

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

he?”

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

every second.

“Yes, exactly. I heard he’s a sort of savage — lives in a hut on the

school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic,

and ends up setting fire to his bed.”

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

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

are your parents?”

“They’re dead,” said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel much like going into

the matter with this boy.

“Oh, sorry,” said the other,. not sounding sorry at all. “But they were

our kind, weren’t they?”

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

“I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re

just not the same, they’ve never been brought up to know our ways. Some

of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter,

imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families.

What’s your surname, anyway?”

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, “That’s you done, my

dear,” and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy,

hopped down from the footstool.

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

62

Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him

(chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).

“What’s up?” said Hagrid.

“Nothing,” Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry

cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you

wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, “Hagrid, what’s Quidditch?”

“Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin’ how little yeh know — not knowin’

about Quidditch!”

“Don’t make me feel worse,” said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pate

boy in Madam Malkin’s.

“–and he said people from Muggle families shouldn’t even be allowed

in.”

“Yer not from a Muggle family. If he’d known who yeh were — he’s grown

up knowin’ yer name if his parents are wizardin’ folk. You saw what

everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what

does he know about it, some o’ the best I ever saw were the only ones

with magic in ‘em in a long line 0′ Muggles — look at yer mum! Look

what she had fer a sister!”

“So what is Quidditch?”

“It’s our sport. Wizard sport. It’s like — like soccer in the Muggle

world — everyone follows Quidditch — played up in the air on

broomsticks and there’s four balls — sorta hard ter explain the rules.”

“And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?”

“School houses. There’s four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o’

duffers, but –”

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

“Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin,” said Hagrid darkly. “There’s not a

single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin.

You-Know-Who was one.”

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

63

“Years an’ years ago,” said Hagrid.

They bought Harry’s school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts

where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as

paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in

covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with

nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have

been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag

Harry away from Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and

Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs,

Tongue- Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.

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

“I’m not sayin’ that’s not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the

Muggle world except in very special circumstances,” said Hagrid. “An’

anyway, yeh couldn’ work any of them curses yet, yeh’ll need a lot more

study before yeh get ter that level.”

Hagrid wouldn’t let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either (”It says

pewter on yer list”), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing

potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited

the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible

smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff

stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined

the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung

from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a

supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself

examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule,

glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).

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

“Just yer wand left - A yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday

present.”

Harry felt himself go red.

“You don’t have to –”

“I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer animal. Not a toad,

toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at - an’ I don’

like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want

64

owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”

Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been

dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now

carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with

her head under her wing. He couldn’t stop stammering his thanks,

sounding just like Professor Quirrell.

“Don’ mention it,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta

presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer

wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

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

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door

read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay

on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped

inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair

that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had

entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that

had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow

boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of

his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle

with some secret magic.

“Good afternoon,” said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have

jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly

off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like

moons through the gloom of the shop.

“Hello,” said Harry awkwardly.

“Ah yes,” said the man. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon.

Harry Potter.” It wasn’t a question. “You have your mother’s eyes. It

seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten

and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm

work.”

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those

65

silvery eyes were a bit creepy.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches.

Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I

say your father favored it — it’s really the wand that chooses the

wizard, of course.”

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to

nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.

“And that’s where…”

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with a

long, white finger.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,” he said softly.

“Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in

the wrong hands… well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into

the world to do….”

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

“Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again…. Oak, sixteen

inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” said Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got

expelled?” said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

“Er — yes, they did, yes,” said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. “I’ve still

got the pieces, though,” he added brightly.

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

“Oh, no, sit,” said Hagrid quickly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink

umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

“Hmmm,” said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. “Well, now

– Mr. Potter. Let me see.” He pulled a long tape measure with silver

markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”

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

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“Hold out your arm. That’s it.” He measured Harry from shoulder to

finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round

his head. As he measured, he said, “Every Ollivander wand has a core of

a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix

tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands

are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite

the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with

another wizard’s wand.”

Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring

between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was

flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

“That will do,” he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on

the floor. “Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon

heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a

wave.”

Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr.

Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

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

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was

snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

“No, no -here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy.

Go on, go on, try it out.”

Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting

for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the

spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the

shelves, the happier he seemed to become.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here

somewhere — I wonder, now - - yes, why not — unusual combination –

holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised

the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air

and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework,

throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and

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clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very

good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious… ”

He put Harry’s wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper,

still muttering, “Curious… curious..

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

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It

so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave

another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you

should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave

you that scar.”

Harry swallowed.

“Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things

happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember…. I think we must expect

great things from you, Mr. Potter…. After all, He-

Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry shivered. He wasn’t sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid

seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his

shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made

their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through

the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn’t speak at all as they walked

down the road; he didn’t even notice how much people were gawking at

them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped

packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry’s lap. Up

another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized

where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

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

He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat

them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

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

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Harry wasn’t sure he could explain. He’d just had the best birthday of

his life — and yet — he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the

words.

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

Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander… but I don’t know

anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I’m

famous and I can’t even remember what I’m famous for. I don’t know what

happened when Vol-, sorry — I mean, the night my parents died.”

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he

wore a very kind smile.

“Don’ you worry, Harry. You’ll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the

beginning at Hogwarts, you’ll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it’s

hard. Yeh’ve been singled out, an’ that’s always hard. But yeh’ll have a

great time at Hogwarts — I did — still do, ’smatter of fact.”

Hagrid helped Harry on to the train that would take him back to the

Dursleys, then handed him an envelope.

“Yer ticket fer Hogwarts, ” he said. “First o’ September — King’s Cross

– it’s all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a

letter with yer owl, she’ll know where to find me…. See yeh soon,

Harry.”

The train pulled out of the station. Harry wanted to watch Hagrid until

he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against

the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

CHAPTER SIX

THE JOURNEY FROM PLATFORM NINE AND THREE-QUARTERS

Harry’s last month with the Dursleys wasn’t fun. True, Dudley was now so

scared of Harry he wouldn’t stay in the same room, while Aunt Petunia

and Uncle Vernon didn’t shut Harry in his cupboard, force him to do

anything, or shout at him — in fact, they didn’t speak to him at all.

Half terrified, half furious, they acted as though any chair with Harry

in it were empty. Although this was an improvement in many ways, it did

become a bit depressing after a while.

69

Harry kept to his room, with his new owl for company. He had decided to

call her Hedwig, a name he had found in A History of Magic. His school

books were very interesting. He lay on his bed reading late into the

night, Hedwig swooping in and out of the open window as she pleased. It

was lucky that Aunt Petunia didn’t come in to vacuum anymore, because

Hedwig kept bringing back dead mice. Every night before he went to

sleep, Harry ticked off another day on the piece of paper he had pinned

to the wall, counting down to September the first.

On the last day of August he thought he’d better speak to his aunt and

uncle about getting to King’s Cross station the next day, so he went

down to the living room where they were watching a quiz show on

television. He cleared his throat to let them know he was there, and

Dudley screamed and ran from the room.

“Er — Uncle Vernon?”

Uncle Vernon grunted to show he was listening.

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

Uncle Vernon grunted again.

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

Grunt. Harry supposed that meant yes.

“Thank you.”

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

“Funny way to get to a wizards’ school, the train. Magic carpets all got

punctures, have they?”

Harry didn’t say anything.

“Where is this school, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” said Harry, realizing this for the first time. He pulled

the ticket Hagrid had given him out of his pocket.

“I just take the train from platform nine and three-quarters at eleven

o’clock,” he read.

70

His aunt and uncle stared.

“Platform what?”

“Nine and three-quarters.”

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

three-quarters.”

“It’s on my ticket.”

“Barking,” said Uncle Vernon, “howling mad, the lot of them. You’ll see.

You just wait. All right, we’ll take you to King’s Cross. We’re going up

to London tomorrow anyway, or I wouldn’t bother.”

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

friendly.

“Taking Dudley to the hospital,” growled Uncle Vernon. “Got to have that

ruddy tail removed before he goes to Smeltings.”

Harry woke at five o’clock the next morning and was too excited and

nervous to go back to sleep. He got up and pulled on his jeans because

he didn’t want to walk into the station in his wizard’s robes — he’d

change on the train. He checked his Hogwarts list yet again to make sure

he had everything he needed, saw that Hedwig was shut safely in her

cage, and then paced the room, waiting for the Dursleys to get up. Two

hours later, Harry’s huge, heavy trunk had been loaded into the

Dursleys’ car, Aunt Petunia had talked Dudley into sitting next to

Harry, and they had set off.

They reached King’s Cross at half past ten. Uncle Vernon dumped Harry’s

trunk onto a cart and wheeled it into the station for him. Harry thought

this was strangely kind until Uncle Vernon stopped dead, facing the

platforms with a nasty grin on his face.

“Well, there you are, boy. Platform nine — platform ten. Your platform

should be somewhere in the middle, but they don’t seem to have built it

yet, do they?”

He was quite right, of course. There was a big plastic number nine over

one platform and a big plastic number ten over the one next to it, and

71

in the middle, nothing at all.

“Have a good term,” said Uncle Vernon with an even nastier smile. He

left without another word. Harry turned and saw the Dursleys drive away.

All three of them were laughing. Harry’s mouth went rather dry. What on

earth was he going to do? He was starting to attract a lot of funny

looks, because of Hedwig. He’d have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard, but didn’t dare mention platform nine and

three-quarters. The guard had never heard of Hogwarts and when Harry

couldn’t even tell him what part of the country it was in, he started to

get annoyed, as though Harry was being stupid on purpose. Getting

desperate, Harry asked for the train that left at eleven o’clock, but

the guard said there wasn’t one. In the end the guard strode away,

muttering about time wasters. Harry was now trying hard not to panic.

According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes

left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he

was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly

lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.

Hagrid must have forgotten to tell him something you had to do, like

tapping the third brick on the left to get into Diagon Alley. He

wondered if he should get out his wand and start tapping the ticket

inspector’s stand between platforms nine and ten.

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a

few words of what they were saying.

“– packed with Muggles, of course –”

Harry swung round. The speaker was a plump woman who was talking to four

boys, all with flaming red hair. Each of them was pushing a trunk like

Harry’s in front of him — and they had an owl.

Heart hammering, Harry pushed his cart after them. They stopped and so

did he, just near enough to hear what they were saying.

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

“Nine and three-quarters!” piped a small girl, also red-headed, who was

holding her hand, “Mom, can’t I go… ”

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

72

first.”

What looked like the oldest boy marched toward platforms nine and ten.

Harry watched, careful not to blink in case he missed it — but just as

the boy reached the dividing barrier between the two platforms, a large

crowd of tourists came swarming in front of him and by the time the last

backpack had cleared away, the boy had vanished.

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

“I’m not Fred, I’m George,” said the boy. “Honestly, woman, you call

yourself our mother? CarA you tell I’m George?”

“Sorry, George, dear.”

“Only joking, I am Fred,” said the boy, and off he went. His twin called

after him to hurry up, and he must have done so, because a second later,

he had gone — but how had he done it?

Now the third brother was walking briskly toward the barrier he was

almost there — and then, quite suddenly, he wasn’t anywhere.

There was nothing else for it.

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

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

She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and

gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

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

–”

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

“Not to worry,” she said. “All you have to do is walk straight at the

barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don’t stop and don’t be scared

you’ll crash into it, that’s very important. Best do it at a bit of a

run if you’re nervous. Go on, go now before Ron.”

“Er — okay,” said Harry.

73

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

solid.

He started to walk toward it. People jostled him on their way to

platforms nine and ten. Harry walked more quickly. He was going to smash

right into that barrier and then he’d be in trouble — leaning forward

on his cart, he broke into a heavy run — the barrier was coming nearer

and nearer — he wouldn’t be able to stop — the cart was out of control

– he was a foot away — he closed his eyes ready for the crash –

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

steam engine was waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign

overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven O’clock. Harry looked behind him

and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the

words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it, He had done it.

Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd,

while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls

hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and

the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging

out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats.

Harry pushed his cart off down the platform in search of an empty seat.

He passed a round-faced boy who was saying, “Gran, I’ve lost my toad

again.”

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

A boy with dreadlocks was surrounded by a small crowd.

“Give us a look, Lee, go on.”

The boy lifted the lid of a box in his arms, and the people around him

shrieked and yelled as something inside poked out a long, hairy leg.

Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment

near the end of the train. He put Hedwig inside first and then started

to shove and heave his trunk toward the train door. He tried to lift it

up the steps but could hardly raise one end and twice he dropped it

painfully on his foot.

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

74

the barrier.

“Yes, please,” Harry panted.

“Oy, Fred! C’mere and help!”

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

of the compartment.

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

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

lightning scar.

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

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

“What?” said Harry.

“Harry Potter, “chorused the twins.

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

The two boys gawked at him, and Harry felt himself turning red. Then, to

his relief, a voice came floating in through the train’s open door.

“Fred? George? Are you there?”

“Coming, Mom.”

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

Harry sat down next to the window where, half hidden, he could watch the

red-haired family on the platform and hear what they were saying. Their

mother had just taken out her handkerchief.

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

The youngest boy tried to jerk out of the way, but she grabbed him and

began rubbing the end of his nose.

“Mom — geroff” He wriggled free.

75

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

twins.

“Shut up,” said Ron.

“Where’s Percy?” said their mother.

“He’s coming now.”

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

billowing black Hogwarts robes, and Harry noticed a shiny silver badge

on his chest with the letter P on it.

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

two compartments to themselves –”

“Oh, are you a prefect, Percy?” said one of the twins, with an air of

great surprise. “You should have said something, we had no idea.”

“Hang on, I think I remember him saying something about it,” said the

other twin. “Once –”

“Or twice –”

“A minute –”

“All summer –”

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

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

“Because he’s a prefect,” said their mother fondly. “All right, dear,

well, have a good term — send me an owl when you get there.”

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

“Now, you two — this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more owl

telling me you’ve — you’ve blown up a toilet or –”

“Blown up a toilet? We’ve never blown up a toilet.”

76

“Great idea though, thanks, Mom.”

“It’s not funny. And look after Ron.”

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

“Shut up,” said Ron again. He was almost as tall as the twins already

and his nose was still pink where his mother had rubbed it.

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

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

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

he is?”

“Who?”

“Harry Potter!”

Harry heard the little girl’s voice.

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

“You’ve already seen him, Ginny, and the poor boy isn’t something you

goggle at in a zoo. Is he really, Fred? How do you know?”

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

“Poor dear - no wonder he was alone, I wondered. He was ever so polite

when he asked how to get onto the platform.”

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

like?”

Their mother suddenly became very stern.

“I forbid you to ask him, Fred. No, don’t you dare. As though he needs

reminding of that on his first day at school.”

“All right, keep your hair on.”

A whistle sounded.

77

“Hurry up!” their mother said, and the three boys clambered onto the

train. They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and

their younger sister began to cry.

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

“We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.”

“George!”

“Only joking, Mom.”

The train began to move. Harry saw the boys’ mother waving and their

sister, half laughing, half crying, running to keep up with the train

until it gathered too much speed, then she fell back and waved.

Harry watched the girl and her mother disappear as the train rounded the

corner. Houses flashed past the window. Harry felt a great leap of

excitement. He didn’t know what he was going to but it had to be better

than what he was leaving behind.

The door of the compartment slid open and the youngest redheaded boy

came in.

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

“Everywhere else is full.”

Harry shook his head and the boy sat down. He glanced at Harry and then

looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn’t looked. Harry saw

he still had a black mark on his nose.

“Hey, Ron.”

The twins were back.

“Listen, we’re going down the middle of the train — Lee Jordan’s got a

giant tarantula down there.”

“Right,” mumbled Ron.

“Harry,” said the other twin, “did we introduce ourselves? Fred and

George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.

78

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

behind them.

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

Harry nodded.

“Oh -well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George’s jokes,” said

Ron. “And have you really got — you know…”

He pointed at Harry’s forehead.

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

“So that’s where You-Know-Who

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

“Nothing?” said Ron eagerly.

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

“Wow,” said Ron. He sat and stared at Harry for a few moments, then, as

though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out

of the window again.

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

interesting as Ron found him.

“Er — Yes, I think so,” said Ron. “I think Mom’s got a second cousin

who’s an accountant, but we never talk about him.”

“So you must know loads of magic already.”

The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale

boy in Diagon Alley had talked about.

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

“Horrible -well, not all of them. My aunt and uncle and cousin are,

though. Wish I’d had three wizard brothers.”

79

“Five,” said Ron. For some reason, he was looking gloomy. “I’m the sixth

in our family to go to Hogwarts. You could say I’ve got a lot to live up

to. Bill and Charlie have already left — Bill was head boy and Charlie

was captain of Quidditch. Now Percy’s a prefect. Fred and George mess

around a lot, but they still get really good marks and everyone thinks

they’re really funny. Everyone expects me to do as well as the others,

but if I do, it’s no big deal, because they did it first. You never get

anything new, either, with five brothers. I’ve got Bill’s old robes,

Charlie’s old wand, and Percy’s old rat.”

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

asleep.

“His name’s Scabbers and he’s useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy

got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn’t aff

– I mean, I got Scabbers instead.”

Ron’s ears went pink. He seemed to think he’d said too much, because he

went back to staring out of the window.

Harry didn’t think there was anything wrong with not being able to

afford an owl. After all, he’d never had any money in his life until a

month ago, and he told Ron so, all about having to wear Dudley’s old

clothes and never getting proper birthday presents. This seemed to cheer

Ron up.

“… and until Hagrid told me, I didn’t know anything about be ing a

wizard or about my parents or Voldemort”

Ron gasped.

“What?” said Harry.

“You said You-Know-Who’s name!” said Ron, sounding both shocked and

impressed. “I’d have thought you, of all people –”

“I’m not trying to be brave or anything, saying the name,” said Harry, I

just never knew you shouldn’t. See what I mean? I’ve got loads to

learn…. I bet,” he added, voicing for the first time something that

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

“You won’t be. There’s loads of people who come from Muggle families and

they learn quick enough.”

80

While they had been talking, the train had carried them out of London.

Now they were speeding past fields full of cows and sheep. They were

quiet for a time, watching the fields and lanes flick past.

Around half past twelve there was a great clattering outside in the

corridor and a smiling, dimpled woman slid back their door and said,

“Anything off the cart, dears?”

Harry, who hadn’t had any breakfast, leapt to his feet, but Ron’s ears

went pink again and he muttered that he’d brought sandwiches. Harry went

out into the corridor.

He had never had any money for candy with the Dursleys, and now that he

had pockets rattling with gold and silver he was ready to buy as many

Mars Bars as he could carry — but the woman didn’t have Mars Bars. What

she did have were Bettie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, Drooble’s Best

Blowing Gum, Chocolate Frogs. Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes, Licorice

Wands, and a number of other strange things Harry had never seen in his

life. Not wanting to miss anything, he got some of everything and paid

the woman eleven silver Sickles and seven bronze Knuts.

Ron stared as Harry brought it all back in to the compartment and tipped

it onto an empty seat.

“Hungry, are you?”

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

Ron had taken out a lumpy package and unwrapped it. There were four

sandwiches inside. He pulled one of them apart and said, “She always

forgets I don’t like corned beef.”

“Swap you for one of these,” said Harry, holding up a pasty. “Go on –”

“You don’t want this, it’s all dry,” said Ron. “She hasn’t got much

time,” he added quickly, “you know, with five of us.”

“Go on, have a pasty,” said Harry, who had never had anything to share

before or, indeed, anyone to share it with. It was a nice feeling,

sitting there with Ron, eating their way through all Harry’s pasties,

cakes, and candies (the sandwiches lay forgotten).

81

“What are these?” Harry asked Ron, holding up a pack of Chocolate Frogs.

“They’re not really frogs, are they?” He was starting to feel that

nothing would surprise him.

“No,” said Ron. “But see what the card is. I’m missing Agrippa.”

“What?”

“Oh, of course, you wouldn’t know — Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside

them, you know, to collect — famous witches and wizards. I’ve got about

five hundred, but I haven’t got Agrippa or Ptolemy.”

Harry unwrapped his Chocolate Frog and picked up the card. It showed a

man’s face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and

flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the

name Albus Dumbledore.

“So this is Dumbledore!” said Harry.

“Don’t tell me you’d never heard of Dumbledore!” said Ron. “Can I have a

frog? I might get Agrippa — thanks

Harry turned over his card and read:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is

particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in

1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his

work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore

enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Harry turned the card back over and saw, to his astonishment, that

Dumbledore’s face had disappeared.

“He’s gone!”

“Well, you can’t expect him to hang around all day,” said Ron. “He’ll be

back. No, I’ve got Morgana again and I’ve got about six of her… do you

want it? You can start collecting.”

82

Ron’s eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be

unwrapped.

“Help yourself,” said Harry. “But in, you know, the Muggle world, people

just stay put in photos.”

“Do they? What, they don’t move at all?” Ron sounded amazed. “weird!”

Harry stared as Dumbledore sidled back into the picture on his card and

gave him a small smile. Ron was more interested in eating the frogs than

looking at the Famous Witches and Wizards cards, but Harry couldn’t keep

his eyes off them. Soon he had not only Dumbledore and Morgana, but

Hengist of Woodcroft, Alberic Grunnion, Circe, Paracelsus, and Merlin.

He finally tore his eyes away from the druidess Cliodna, who was

scratching her nose, to open a bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“You want to be careful with those,” Ron warned Harry. “When they say

every flavor, they mean every flavor — you know, you get all the

ordinary ones like chocolate and peppermint and mar- malade, but then

you can get spinach and liver and tripe. George reckons he had a boogerflavored

one once.”

Ron picked up a green bean, looked at it carefully, and bit into a

corner.

“Bleaaargh — see? Sprouts.”

They had a good time eating the Every Flavor Beans. Harry got toast,

coconut, baked bean, strawberry, curry, grass, coffee, sardine, and was

even brave enough to nibble the end off a funny gray one Ron wouldn’t

touch, which turned out to be pepper.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat

fields had gone. Now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green

hills.

There was a knock on the door of their compartment and the round-faced

boy Harry had passed on platform nine and threequarters came in. He

looked tearful.

“Sorry,” he said, “but have you seen a toad at all?”

When they shook their heads, he wailed, “I’ve lost him! He keeps getting

83

away from me!”

“He’ll turn up,” said Harry.

“Yes,” said the boy miserably. “Well, if you see him…”

He left.

“Don’t know why he’s so bothered,” said Ron. “If I’d brought a toad I’d

lose it as quick as I could. Mind you, I brought Scabbers, so I can’t

talk.”

The rat was still snoozing on Ron’s lap.

“He might have died and you wouldn’t know the difference,” said Ron in

disgust. “I tried to turn him yellow yesterday to make him more

interesting, but the spell didn’t work. I’ll show you, look…”

He rummaged around in his trunk and pulled out a very battered-looking

wand. It was chipped in places and something white was glinting at the

end.

“Unicorn hair’s nearly poking out. Anyway

He had just raised his ‘wand when the compartment door slid open again.

The toadless boy was back, but this time he had a girl with him. She was

already wearing her new Hogwarts robes.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one,” she said. She had a bossy

sort of voice, lots of bushy brown hair, and rather large front teeth.

“We’ve already told him we haven’t seen it,” said Ron, but the girl

wasn’t listening, she was looking at the wand in his hand.

“Oh, are you doing magic? Let’s see it, then.”

She sat down. Ron looked taken aback.

“Er — all right.”

He cleared his throat.

“Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, Turn this stupid, fat rat yellow.”

84

He waved his wand, but nothing happened. Scabbers stayed gray and fast

asleep.

“Are you sure that’s a real spell?” said the girl. “Well, it’s not very

good, is it? I’ve tried a few simple spells just for practice and it’s

all worked for me. Nobody in my family’s magic at all, it was ever such

a surprise when I got my letter, but I was ever so pleased, of course, I

mean, it’s the very best school of witchcraft there is, I’ve heard –

I’ve learned all our course books by heart, of course, I just hope it

will be enough — I’m Hermione Granger, by the way, who are you.

She said all this very fast.

Harry looked at Ron, and was relieved to see by his stunned face that he

hadn’t learned all the course books by heart either.

“I’m Ron Weasley,” Ron muttered.

“Harry Potter,” said Harry.

“Are you really?” said Hermione. “I know all about you, of course — I

got a few extra books. for background reading, and you’re in Modern

Magical History and The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great

Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.

“Am I?” said Harry, feeling dazed.

“Goodness, didn’t you know, I’d have found out everything I could if it

was me,” said Hermione. “Do either of you know what house you’ll be in?

I’ve been asking around, and I hope I’m in Gryffindor, it sounds by far

the best; I hear Dumbledore himself was in it, but I suppose Ravenclaw

wouldn’t be too bad…. Anyway, we’d better go and look for Neville’s

toad. You two had better change, you know, I expect we’ll be there

soon.”

And she left, taking the toadless boy with her.

“Whatever house I’m in, I hope she’s not in it,” said Ron. He threw his

wand back into his trunk. “Stupid spell — George gave it to me, bet he

knew it was a dud.”

“What house are your brothers in?” asked Harry.

85

“Gryffindor,” said Ron. Gloom seemed to be settling on him again. “Mom

and Dad were in it, too. I don’t know what they’ll say if I’m not. I

don’t suppose Ravenclaw would be too bad, but imagine if they put me in

Slytherin.”

“That’s the house Vol-, I mean, You-Know-Who was in?”

“Yeah,” said Ron. He flopped back into his seat, looking depressed.

“You know, I think the ends of Scabbers’ whiskers are a bit lighter,”

said Harry, trying to take Ron’s mind off houses. “So what do your

oldest brothers do now that they’ve left, anyway?”

Harry was wondering what a wizard did once he’d finished school.

“Charlie’s in Romania studying dragons, and Bill’s in Africa doing

something for Gringotts,” said Ron. “Did you hear about

Gringotts? It’s been all over the Daily Prophet, but I don’t suppose you

get that with the Muggles — someone tried to rob a high security

vault.”

Harry stared.

“Really? What happened to them?”

“Nothing, that’s why it’s such big news. They haven’t been caught. My

dad says it must’ve been a powerful Dark wizard to get round Gringotts,

but they don’t think they took anything, that’s what’s odd. ‘Course,

everyone gets scared when something like this happens in case

You-Know-Who’s behind it.”

Harry turned this news over in his mind. He was starting to get a

prickle of fear every time You- Know-Who was mentioned. He supposed this

was all part of entering the magical world, but it had been a lot more

comfortable saying “Voldemort” without worrying.

“What’s your Quidditch team?” Ron asked.

“Er — I don’t know any,” Harry confessed.

“What!” Ron looked dumbfounded. “Oh, you wait, it’s the best game in the

86

world –” And he was off, explaining all about the four balls and the

positions of the seven players, describing famous games he’d been to

with his brothers and the broomstick he’d like to get if he had the

money. He was just taking Harry through the finer points of the game

when the compartment door slid open yet again, but it wasn’t Neville the

toadless boy, or Hermione Granger this time.

Three boys entered, and Harry recognized the middle one at once: it was

the pale boy from Madam Malkin’s robe shop. He was looking at Harry with

a lot more interest than he’d shown back in Diagon Alley.

“Is it true?” he said. “They’re saying all down the train that Harry

Potter’s in this compartment. So it’s you, is it?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He was looking at the other boys. Both of them were

thickset and looked extremely mean. Standing on either side of the pale

boy, they looked like bodyguards.

“Oh, this is Crabbe and this is Goyle,” said the pale boy carelessly,

noticing where Harry was looking. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Ron gave a slight cough, which might have been hiding a snigget. Draco

Malfoy looked at him.

“Think my name’s funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father

told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than

they can afford.”

He turned back to Harry. “You’ll soon find out some wizarding families

are much better than others, Potter. You don’t want to go making friends

with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

He held out his hand to shake Harry’s, but Harry didn’t take it.

“I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” he said

coolly.

Draco Malfoy didn’t go red, but a pink tinge appeared in his pale

cheeks.

“I’d be careful if I were you, Potter,” he said slowly. “Unless you’re a

bit politer you’ll go the same way as your parents. They didn’t know

what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the

87

Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it’ll rub off on you.”

Both Harry and Ron stood up.

“Say that again,” Ron said, his face as red as his hair.

“Oh, you’re going to fight us, are you?” Malfoy sneered.

“Unless you get out now,” said Harry, more bravely than he felt, because

Crabbe and Goyle were a lot bigger than him or Ron.

“But we don’t feet like leaving, do we, boys? We’ve eaten all our food

and you still seem to have some.”

Goyle reached toward the Chocolate Frogs next to Ron - Ron leapt

forward, but before he’d so much as touched Goyle, Goyle let out a

horrible yell.

Scabbers the rat was hanging off his finger, sharp little teeth sunk

deep into Goyle’s knuckle - Crabbe and Malfoy backed away as Goyle swung

Scabbers round and round, howling, and when Scabbets finally flew off

and hit the window, all three of them disappeared at once. Perhaps they

thought there were more rats lurking among the sweets, or perhaps they’d

heard footsteps, because a second later, Hermione Granger had come in.

“What has been going on?” she said, looking at the sweets all over the

floor and Ron picking up Scabbers by his tail.

I think he’s been knocked out,” Ron said to Harry. He looked closer at

Scabbers. “No — I don’t believe it — he’s gone back to sleep-”

And so he had.

“You’ve met Malfoy before?”

Harry explained about their meeting in Diagon Alley.

“I’ve heard of his family,” said Ron darkly. “They were some of the

first to come back to our side after You-Know-Who disappeared. Said

they’d been bewitched. My dad doesn’t believe it. He says Malfoy’s

father didn’t need an excuse to go over to the Dark Side.” He turned to

Hermione. “Can we help you with something?”

88

“You’d better hurry up and put your robes on, I’ve just been up to the

front to ask the conductor, and he says we’re nearly there. You haven’t

been fighting, have you? You’ll be in trouble before we even get there!”

“Scabbers has been fighting, not us,” said Ron, scowling at her. “Would

you mind leaving while we change?”

“All right — I only came in here because people outside are behaving

very childishly, racing up and down the corridors,” said Hermione in a

sniffy voice. “And you’ve got dirt on your nose, by the way, did you

know?”

Ron glared at her as she left. Harry peered out of the window. It was

getting dark. He could see mountains and forests under a deep purple

sky. The train did seem to be slowing down.

He and Ron took off their jackets and pulled on their long black robes.

Ron’s were a bit short for him, you could see his sneakers underneath

them.

A voice echoed through the train: “We will be reaching Hogwarts in five

minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, it will be taken

to the school separately.”

Harry’s stomach lurched with nerves and Ron, he saw, looked pale under

his freckles. They crammed their pockets with the last of the sweets and

joined the crowd thronging the corridor.

The train slowed right down and finally stopped. People pushed their way

toward the door and out on to a tiny, dark platform. Harry shivered in

the cold night air. Then a lamp came bobbing over the heads of the

students, and Harry heard a familiar voice: “Firs’ years! Firs’ years

over here! All right there, Harry?”

Hagrid’s big hairy face beamed over the sea of heads.

“C’mon, follow me — any more firs’ years? Mind yer step, now! Firs’

years follow me!”

Slipping and stumbling, they followed Hagrid down what seemed to be a

steep, narrow path. It was so dark on either side of them that Harry

thought there must be thick trees there. Nobody spoke much. Neville, the

boy who kept losing his toad, sniffed once or twice.

89

“Ye’ all get yer firs’ sight o’ Hogwarts in a sec,” Hagrid called over

his shoulder, “jus’ round this bend here.”

There was a loud “Oooooh!”

The narrow path had opened suddenly onto the edge of a great black take.

Perched atop a high mountain on the other side, its windows sparkling in

the starry sky, was a vast castle with many turrets and towers.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, pointing to a fleet of little

boats sitting in the water by the shore. Harry and Ron were followed

into their boat by Neville and Hermione. “Everyone in?” shouted Hagrid,

who had a boat to himself. “Right then — FORWARD!”

And the fleet of little boats moved off all at once, gliding across the

lake, which was as smooth as glass. Everyone was silent, staring up at

the great castle overhead. It towered over them as they sailed nearer

and nearer to the cliff on which it stood.

“Heads down!” yelled Hagrid as the first boats reached the cliff; they

all bent their heads and the little boats carried them through a curtain

of ivy that hid a wide opening in the cliff face. They were carried

along a dark tunnel, which seemed to be taking them right underneath the

castle, until they reached a kind of underground harbor, where they

clambered out onto rocks and pebbles.

“Oy, you there! Is this your toad?” said Hagrid, who was checking the

boats as people climbed out of them.

“Trevor!” cried Neville blissfully, holding out his hands. Then they

clambered up a passageway in the rock after Hagrid’s lamp, coming out at

last onto smooth, damp grass right in the shadow of the castle.

They walked up a flight of stone steps and crowded around the huge, Oak

front door.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle

door.

90

THE BOY WHO LIVED

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say

that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last

people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious,

because they just didn’t hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made

drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did

have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had

nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she

spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the

neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their

opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and

their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn’t

think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs.

Potter was Mrs. Dursley’s sister, but they hadn’t met for several years;

in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn’t have a sister, because her

sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was

possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would

say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the

Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy

was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn’t want

Dudley mixing with a child like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story

starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that

strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the

country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for

work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming

Dudley into his high chair.

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

At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs.

Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed,

2

because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the

walls. “Little tyke,” chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got

into his car and backed out of number four’s drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of

something peculiar — a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley

didn’t realize what he had seen — then he jerked his head around to

look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet

Drive, but there wasn’t a map in sight. What could he have been thinking

of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and

stared at the cat. It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the

corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now

reading the sign that said Privet Drive — no, looking at the sign; cats

couldn’t read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and

put the cat out of his mind. As he drove toward town he thought of

nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something

else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help

noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people

about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn’t bear people who dressed in

funny clothes — the getups you saw on young people! He supposed this

was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering

wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite

close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was

enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t young at all; why, that man

had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The

nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some

silly stunt — these people were obviously collecting for something…

yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on and a few minutes later, Mr.

Dursley arrived in the Grunnings parking lot, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the

ninth floor. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate

on drills that morning. He didn’t see the owls swoop ing past in broad

daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed

open- mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead. Most of them had never

seen an owl even at nighttime. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly

normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made

several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a

very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he’d stretch his legs

and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the bakery.

3

He’d forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of

them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t

know why, but they made him uneasy. This bunch were whispering

excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single collecting tin. It was on

his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he

caught a few words of what they were saying.

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard yes, their son, Harry”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the

whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better

of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his

secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost

finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the

receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking… no, he was

being stupid. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. He was sure there were

lots of people called Potter who had a son called Harry. Come to think

of it, he wasn’t even sure his nephew was called Harry. He’d never even

seen the boy. It might have been Harvey. Or Harold. There was no point

in worrying Mrs. Dursley; she always got so upset at any mention of her

sister. He didn’t blame her — if he’d had a sister like that… but all

the same, those people in cloaks…

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon and

when he left the building at five o’clock, he was still so worried that

he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It

was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a

violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the

ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in

a squeaky voice that made passersby stare, “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir,

for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at

last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating, this happy,

happy day!”

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

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete

stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that

was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off for home, hoping

4

he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he

didn’t approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw –

and it didn’t improve his mood — was the tabby cat he’d spotted that

morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the

same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

“Shoo!” said Mr. Dursley loudly. The cat didn’t move. It just gave him a

stern look. Was this normal cat behavior? Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying

to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still

determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all

about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had

learned a new word (”Won’t!”). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When

Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to

catch the last report on the evening news:

“And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s

owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally

hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been

hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since

sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly

changed their sleeping pattern.” The newscaster allowed himself a grin.

“Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going

to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?”

“Well, Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t know about that, but it’s not

only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as

Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead

of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting

stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s

not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain?

Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place?

And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters…

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was

no good. He’d have to say something to her. He cleared his throat

nervously. “Er — Petunia, dear — you haven’t heard from your sister

lately, have you?”

5

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all,

they normally pretended she didn’t have a sister.

“No,” she said sharply. “Why?”

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dursley mumbled. “Owls… shooting

stars… and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today…”

“So?” snapped Mrs. Dursley.

“Well, I just thought… maybe… it was something to do with… you

know… her crowd.”

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered

whether he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter.” He decided he

didn’t dare. Instead he said, as casually as he could, “Their son –

he’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t he?”

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

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

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

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

agree.”

He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed.

While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom

window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there.

It was staring down Privet Drive as though it were waiting for

something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the

Potters? If it did… if it got out that they were related to a pair of

– well, he didn’t think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly but Mr.

Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting

thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were

involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs.

Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about

6

them and their kind…. He couldn’t see how he and Petunia could get

mixed up in anything that might be going on — he yawned and turned over

– it couldn’t affect them….

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat

on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as

still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of

Privet Drive. It didn’t so much as quiver when a car door slammed on the

next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly

midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so

suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the

ground. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall,

thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which

were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes,

a purple cloak that swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots.

His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon

spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been

broken at least twice. This man’s name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn’t seem to realize that he had just arrived in a

street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome. He was

busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to

realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the cat,

which was still staring at him from the other end of the street. For

some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and

muttered, “I should have known.”

He found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a

silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air, and

clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop. He

clicked it again — the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times

he clicked the Put-Outer, until the only lights left on the whole street

were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat

watching him. If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed

Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening

down on the pavement. Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his

cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he sat down

7

on the wall next to the cat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment he

spoke to it.

“Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall.”

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead he was smiling

at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly

the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was

wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight

bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

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

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

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

Professor McGonagall.

“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a

dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

“Oh yes, everyone’s celebrating, all right,” she said impatiently.

“You’d think they’d be a bit more careful, but no — even the Muggles

have noticed something’s going on. It was on their news.” She jerked her

head back at the Dursleys’ dark living-room window. “I heard it. Flocks

of owls… shooting stars…. Well, they’re not completely stupid. They

were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent — I’ll bet

that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them,” said Dumbledore gently. “We’ve had precious

little to celebrate for eleven years.”

“I know that,” said Professor McGonagall irritably. “But that’s no

reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on

the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes,

swapping rumors.”

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping

he was going to tell her something, but he didn’t, so she went on. “A

fine thing it would be if, on the very day YouKnow-Who seems to have

disappeared at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he

8

really has gone, Dumbledore?”

“It certainly seems so,” said Dumbledore. “We have much to be thankful

for. Would you care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

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

“No, thank you,” said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn’t

think this was the moment for lemon drops. “As I say, even if

You-Know-Who has gone -”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him

by his name? All this ‘You- Know-Who’ nonsense — for eleven years I

have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name:

Voldemort.” Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was

unsticking two lemon drops, seemed not to notice. “It all gets so

confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who.’ I have never seen any reason

to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.

“I know you haven ‘t, said Professor McGonagall, sounding half

exasperated, half admiring. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re

the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will

never have.”

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

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey

told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, “The owls

are nothing next to the rumors that are flying around. You know what

everyone’s saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally

stopped him?”

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most

anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold, hard

wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed

Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that

whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not going to believe it until

9

Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing

another lemon drop and did not answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort

turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is

that Lily and James Potter are — are — that they’re — dead. ”

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

“Lily and James… I can’t believe it… I didn’t want to believe it…

Oh, Albus…”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. “I know… I

know…” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on. “That’s not all.

They’re saying he tried to kill the Potter’s son, Harry. But — he

couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little boy. No one knows why, or how,

but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Harry Potter, Voldemort’s

power somehow broke — and that’s why he’s gone.

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s — it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all he’s

done… all the people he’s killed… he couldn’t kill a little boy?

It’s just astounding… of all the things to stop him… but how in the

name of heaven did Harry survive?”

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

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her

eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a

golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch.

It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving

around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because

he put it back in his pocket and said, “Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was

he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to

tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Harry to his aunt and uncle. They’re the only family

he has left now.”

10

“You don’t mean — you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried

Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.

“Dumbledore — you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn’t

find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son — I saw

him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets.

Harry Potter come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for him,” said Dumbledore firmly. “His aunt and

uncle will be able to explain everything to him when he’s older. I’ve

written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on

the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a

letter? These people will never understand him! He’ll be famous — a

legend — I wouldn’t be surprised if today was known as Harry Potter day

in the future — there will be books written about Harry — every child

in our world will know his name!”

“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his

half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any boy’s head. Famous

before he can walk and talk! Famous for something he won’t even

remember! CarA you see how much better off he’ll be, growing up away

from all that until he’s ready to take it?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and

then said, “Yes — yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the boy

getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she

thought he might be hiding Harry underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing him.”

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

this?”

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

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place,” said Professor

McGonagall grudgingly, “but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does

tend to — what was that?”

A low rumbling sound had broken the silence around them. It grew

steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a

11

headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky — and

a huge motorcycle fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of

them.

If the motorcycle was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride

it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times

as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild - long

tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face, he had hands

the size of trash can lids, and his feet in their leather boots were

like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms he was holding a bundle

of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did

you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sit,” said the giant, climbing

carefully off the motorcycle as he spoke. “Young Sirius Black lent it to

me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir — house was almost destroyed, but I got him out all right

before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. He fell asleep as we was

flyin’ over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of

blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby boy, fast asleep. Under a

tuft of jet-black hair over his forehead they could see a curiously

shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where -?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “He’ll have that scar forever.”

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

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

above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well

– give him here, Hagrid — we’d better get this over with.”

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

“Could I — could I say good-bye to him, sir?” asked Hagrid. He bent his

12

great, shaggy head over Harry and gave him what must have been a very

scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a

wounded dog.

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

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief and

burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it — Lily an’ James dead

– an’ poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles -”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or

we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly

on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to

the front door. He laid Harry gently on the doorstep, took a letter out

of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry’s blankets, and then came back to

the other two. For a full minute the three of them stood and looked at

the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall

blinked furiously, and the twinkling light that usually shone from

Dumbledore’s eyes seemed to have gone out.

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying

here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’ll be takin’ Sirius his

bike back. G’night, Professor McGonagall — Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself

onto the motorcycle and kicked the engine into life; with a roar it rose

into the air and off into the night.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore,

nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he

stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once, and

twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet

Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking

around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the

bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

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

of his cloak, he was gone.

13

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and

tidy under the inky sky, the very last place you would expect

astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his

blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on the letter beside

him and he slept on, not knowing he was special, not knowing he was

famous, not knowing he would be woken in a few hours’ time by Mrs.

Dursley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk

bottles, nor that he would spend the next few weeks being prodded and

pinched by his cousin Dudley… He couldn’t know that at this very

moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up

their glasses and saying in hushed voices: “To Harry Potter — the boy

who lived!”

CHAPTER TWO

THE VANISHING GLASS

Nearly ten years had passed since the Dursleys had woken up to find

their nephew on the front step, but Privet Drive had hardly changed at

all. The sun rose on the same tidy front gardens and lit up the brass

number four on the Dursleys’ front door; it crept into their living

room, which was almost exactly the same as it had been on the night when

Mr. Dursley had seen that fateful news report about the owls. Only the

photographs on the mantelpiece really showed how much time had passed.

Ten years ago, there had been lots of pictures of what looked like a

large pink beach ball wearing different-colored bonnets — but Dudley

Dursley was no longer a baby, and now the photographs showed a large

blond boy riding his first bicycle, on a carousel at the fair, playing a

computer game with his father, being hugged and kissed by his mother.

The room held no sign at all that another boy lived in the house, too.

Yet Harry Potter was still there, asleep at the moment, but not for

long. His Aunt Petunia was awake and it was her shrill voice that made

the first noise of the day.

“Up! Get up! Now!”

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

“Up!” she screeched. Harry heard her walking toward the kitchen and then

the sound of the frying pan being put on the stove. He rolled onto his

back and tried to remember the dream he had been having. It had been a

14

good one. There had been a flying motorcycle in it. He had a funny

feeling he’d had the same dream before.

His aunt was back outside the door.

“Are you up yet?” she demanded.

“Nearly,” said Harry.

“Well, get a move on, I want you to look after the bacon. And don’t you

dare let it burn, I want everything perfect on Duddy’s birthday.”

Harry groaned.

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

“Nothing, nothing…”

Dudley’s birthday — how could he have forgotten? Harry got slowly out

of bed and started looking for socks. He found a pair under his bed and,

after pulling a spider off one of them, put them on. Harry was used to

spiders, because the cupboard under the stairs was full of them, and

that was where he slept.

When he was dressed he went down the hall into the kitchen. The table

was almost hidden beneath all Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked as

though Dudley had gotten the new computer he wanted, not to mention the

second television and the racing bike. Exactly why Dudley wanted a

racing bike was a mystery to Harry, as Dudley was very fat and hated

exercise — unless of course it involved punching somebody. Dudley’s

favorite punching bag was Harry, but he couldn’t often catch him. Harry

didn’t look it, but he was very fast.

Perhaps it had something to do with living in a dark cupboard, but Harry

had always been small and skinny for his age. He looked even smaller and

skinnier than he really was because all he had to wear were old clothes

of Dudley’s, and Dudley was about four times bigger than he was. Harry

had a thin face, knobbly knees, black hair, and bright green eyes. He

wore round glasses held together with a lot of Scotch tape because of

all the times Dudley had punched him on the nose. The only thing Harry

liked about his own appearance was a very thin scar on his forehead that

was shaped like a bolt of lightning. He had had it as long as he could

remember, and the first question he could ever remember asking his Aunt

15

Petunia was how he had gotten it.

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

questions.”

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

Dursleys.

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

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

About once a week, Uncle Vernon looked over the top of his newspaper and

shouted that Harry needed a haircut. Harry must have had more haircuts

than the rest of the boys in his class put

together, but it made no difference, his hair simply grew that way –

all over the place.

Harry was frying eggs by the time Dudley arrived in the kitchen with his

mother. Dudley looked a lot like Uncle Vernon. He had a large pink face,

not much neck, small, watery blue eyes, and thick blond hair that lay

smoothly on his thick, fat head. Aunt Petunia often said that Dudley

looked like a baby angel — Harry often said that Dudley looked like a

pig in a wig.

Harry put the plates of egg and bacon on the table, which was difficult

as there wasn’t much room. Dudley, meanwhile, was counting his presents.

His face fell.

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

less than last year.”

“Darling, you haven’t counted Auntie Marge’s present, see, it’s here

under this big one from Mommy and Daddy.”

“All right, thirty-seven then,” said Dudley, going red in the face.

Harry, who could see a huge Dudley tantrum coming on, began wolfing down

his bacon as fast as possible in case Dudley turned the table over.

Aunt Petunia obviously scented danger, too, because she said quickly,

“And we’ll buy you another two presents while we’re out today. How’s

that, popkin? Two more presents. Is that all right”

16

Dudley thought for a moment. It looked like hard work. Finally he said

slowly, “So I’ll have thirty … thirty…”

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

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

then.”

Uncle Vernon chuckled. “Little tyke wants his money’s worth, just like

his father. ‘Atta boy, Dudley!” He ruffled Dudley’s hair.

At that moment the telephone rang and Aunt Petunia went to answer it

while Harry and Uncle Vernon watched Dudley unwrap the racing bike, a

video camera, a remote control airplane, sixteen new computer games, and

a VCR. He was ripping the paper off a gold wristwatch when Aunt Petunia

came back from the telephone looking both angry and worried.

“Bad news, Vernon,” she said. “Mrs. Figg’s broken her leg. She can’t

take him.” She jerked her head in Harry’s direction.

Dudley’s mouth fell open in horror, but Harry’s heart gave a leap. Every

year on Dudley’s birthday, his parents took him and a friend out for the

day, to adventure parks, hamburger restaurants, or the movies. Every

year, Harry was left behind with Mrs. Figg, a mad old lady who lived two

streets away. Harry hated it there. The whole house smelled of cabbage

and Mrs. Figg made him look at photographs of all the cats she’d ever

owned.

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

planned this. Harry knew he ought to feel sorry that Mrs. Figg had

broken her leg, but it wasn’t easy when he reminded himself it would be

a whole year before he had to look at Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Paws, and

Tufty again.

“We could phone Marge,” Uncle Vernon suggested.

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

The Dursleys often spoke about Harry like this, as though he wasn’t

there — or rather, as though he was something very nasty that couldn’t

understand them, like a slug.

17

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

“On vacation in Majorca,” snapped Aunt Petunia.

“You could just leave me here,” Harry put in hopefully (he’d be able to

watch what he wanted on television for a change and maybe even have a go

on Dudley’s computer).

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

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

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

“I suppose we could take him to the zoo,” said Aunt Petunia slowly, “…

and leave him in the car….”

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

Dudley began to cry loudly. In fact, he wasn’t really crying — it had

been years since he’d really cried — but he knew that if he screwed up

his face and wailed, his mother would give him anything he wanted.

“Dinky Duddydums, don’t cry, Mummy won’t let him spoil your special

day!” she cried, flinging her arms around him.

“I… don’t… want… him… t-t-to come!” Dudley yelled between huge,

pretend sobs. “He always sp- spoils everything!” He shot Harry a nasty

grin through the gap in his mother’s arms.

Just then, the doorbell rang — “Oh, good Lord, they’re here!” said Aunt

Petunia frantically — and a moment later, Dudley’s best friend, Piers

Polkiss, walked in with his mother. Piers was a scrawny boy with a face

like a rat. He was usually the one who held people’s arms behind their

backs while Dudley hit them. Dudley stopped pretending to cry at once.

Half an hour later, Harry, who couldn’t believe his luck, was sitting in

the back of the Dursleys’ car with Piers and Dudley, on the way to the

zoo for the first time in his life. His aunt and uncle hadn’t been able

to think of anything else to do with him, but before they’d left, Uncle

Vernon had taken Harry aside.

“I’m warning you,” he had said, putting his large purple face right up

18

close to Harry’s, “I’m warning you now, boy — any funny business,

anything at all — and you’ll be in that cupboard from now until

Christmas.”

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

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

The problem was, strange things often happened around Harry and it was

just no good telling the Dursleys he didn’t make them happen.

Once, Aunt Petunia, tired of Harry coming back from the barbers looking

as though he hadn’t been at all, had taken a pair of kitchen scissors

and cut his hair so short he was almost bald except for his bangs, which

she left “to hide that horrible scar.” Dudley had laughed himself silly

at Harry, who spent a sleepless night imagining school the next day,

where he was already laughed at for his baggy clothes and taped glasses.

Next morning, however, he had gotten up to find his hair exactly as it

had been before Aunt Petunia had sheared it off He had been given a week

in his cupboard for this, even though he had tried to explain that he

couldn’t explain how it had grown back so quickly.

Another time, Aunt Petunia had been trying to force him into a revolting

old sweater of Dudley’s (brown with orange puff balls) — The harder she

tried to pull it over his head, the smaller it seemed to become, until

finally it might have fitted a hand puppet, but certainly wouldn’t fit

Harry. Aunt Petunia had decided it must have shrunk in the wash and, to

his great relief, Harry wasn’t punished.

On the other hand, he’d gotten into terrible trouble for being found on

the roof of the school kitchens. Dudley’s gang had been chasing him as

usual when, as much to Harry’s surprise as anyone else’s, there he was

sitting on the chimney. The Dursleys had received a very angry letter

from Harry’s headmistress telling them Harry had been climbing school

buildings. But all he’d tried to do (as he shouted at Uncle Vernon

through the locked door of his cupboard) was jump behind the big trash

cans outside the kitchen doors. Harry supposed that the wind must have

caught him in mid- jump.

But today, nothing was going to go wrong. It was even worth being with

Dudley and Piers to be spending the day somewhere that wasn’t school,

his cupboard, or Mrs. Figg’s cabbage-smelling living room.

19

While he drove, Uncle Vernon complained to Aunt Petunia. He liked to

complain about things: people at work, Harry, the council, Harry, the

bank, and Harry were just a few of his favorite subjects. This morning,

it was motorcycles.

“… roaring along like maniacs, the young hoodlums,” he said, as a

motorcycle overtook them.

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

was flying.”

Uncle Vernon nearly crashed into the car in front. He turned right

around in his seat and yelled at Harry, his face like a gigantic beet

with a mustache: “MOTORCYCLES DON’T FLY!”

Dudley and Piers sniggered.

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

But he wished he hadn’t said anything. If there was one thing the

Dursleys hated even more than his asking questions, it was his talking

about anything acting in a way it shouldn’t, no matter if it was in a

dream or even a cartoon — they seemed to think he might get dangerous

ideas.

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

Dursleys bought Dudley and Piers large chocolate ice creams at the

entrance and then, because the smiling lady in the van had asked Harry

what he wanted before they could hurry him away, they bought him a cheap

lemon ice pop. It wasn’t bad, either, Harry thought, licking it as they

watched a gorilla scratching its head who looked remarkably like Dudley,

except that it wasn’t blond.

Harry had the best morning he’d had in a long time. He was careful to

walk a little way apart from the Dursleys so that Dudley and Piers, who

were starting to get bored with the animals by lunchtime, wouldn’t fall

back on their favorite hobby of hitting him. They ate in the zoo

restaurant, and when Dudley had a tantrum because his knickerbocker

glory didn’t have enough ice cream on top, Uncle Vernon bought him

another one and Harry was allowed to finish the first.

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

last.

20

After lunch they went to the reptile house. It was cool and dark in

there, with lit windows all along the walls. Behind the glass, all sorts

of lizards and snakes were crawling and slithering over bits of wood and

stone. Dudley and Piers wanted to see huge, poisonous cobras and thick,

man-crushing pythons. Dudley quickly found the largest snake in the

place. It could have wrapped its body twice around Uncle Vernon’s car

and crushed it into a trash can — but at the moment it didn’t look in

the mood. In fact, it was fast asleep.

Dudley stood with his nose pressed against the glass, staring at the

glistening brown coils.

“Make it move,” he whined at his father. Uncle Vernon tapped on the

glass, but the snake didn’t budge.

“Do it again,” Dudley ordered. Uncle Vernon rapped the glass smartly

with his knuckles, but the snake just snoozed on.

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

Harry moved in front of the tank and looked intently at the snake. He

wouldn’t have been surprised if it had died of boredom itself — no

company except stupid people drumming their fingers on the glass trying

to disturb it all day long. It was worse than having a cupboard as a

bedroom, where the only visitor was Aunt Petunia hammering on the door

to wake you up; at least he got to visit the rest of the house.

The snake suddenly opened its beady eyes. Slowly, very slowly, it raised

its head until its eyes were on a level with Harry’s.

It winked.

Harry stared. Then he looked quickly around to see if anyone was

watching. They weren’t. He looked back at the snake and winked, too.

The snake jerked its head toward Uncle Vernon and Dudley, then raised

its eyes to the ceiling. It gave Harry a look that said quite plainly:

“I get that all the time.

“I know,” Harry murmured through the glass, though he wasn’t sure the

snake could hear him. “It must be really annoying.”

21

The snake nodded vigorously.

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

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

peered at it.

Boa Constrictor, Brazil.

“Was it nice there?”

The boa constrictor jabbed its tail at the sign again and Harry read on:

This specimen was bred in the zoo. “Oh, I see — so you’ve never been to

Brazil?”

As the snake shook its head, a deafening shout behind Harry made both of

them jump.

“DUDLEY! MR. DURSLEY! COME AND LOOK AT THIS SNAKE! YOU

WON’T BELIEVE

WHAT IT’S DOING!”

Dudley came waddling toward them as fast as he could.

“Out of the way, you,” he said, punching Harry in the ribs. Caught by

surprise, Harry fell hard on the concrete floor. What came next happened

so fast no one saw how it happened — one second, Piers and Dudley were

leaning right up close to the glass, the next, they had leapt back with

howls of horror.

Harry sat up and gasped; the glass front of the boa constrictor’s tank

had vanished. The great snake was uncoiling itself rapidly, slithering

out onto the floor. People throughout the reptile house screamed and

started running for the exits.

As the snake slid swiftly past him, Harry could have sworn a low,

hissing voice said, “Brazil, here I come…. Thanksss, amigo.”

The keeper of the reptile house was in shock.

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

22

The zoo director himself made Aunt Petunia a cup of strong, sweet tea

while he apologized over and over again. Piers and Dudley could only

gibber. As far as Harry had seen, the snake hadn’t done anything except

snap playfully at their heels as it passed, but by the time they were

all back in Uncle Vernon’s car, Dudley was telling them how it had

nearly bitten off his leg, while Piers was swearing it had tried to

squeeze him to death. But worst of all, for Harry at least, was Piers

calming down enough to say, “Harry was talking to it, weren’t you,

Harry?”

Uncle Vernon waited until Piers was safely out of the house before

starting on Harry. He was so angry he could hardly speak. He managed to

say, “Go — cupboard — stay — no meals,” before he collapsed into a

chair, and Aunt Petunia had to run and get him a large brandy.

Harry lay in his dark cupboard much later, wishing he had a watch. He

didn’t know what time it was and he couldn’t be sure the Dursleys were

asleep yet. Until they were, he couldn’t risk sneaking to the kitchen

for some food.

He’d lived with the Dursleys almost ten years, ten miserable years, as

long as he could remember, ever since he’d been a baby and his parents

had died in that car crash. He couldn’t remember being in the car when

his parents had died. Sometimes, when he strained his memory during long

hours in his cupboard, he came up with a strange vision: a blinding

flash of green light and a burn- ing pain on his forehead. This, he

supposed, was the crash, though he couldn’t imagine where all the green

light came from. He couldn’t remember his parents at all. His aunt and

uncle never spoke about them, and of course he was forbidden to ask

questions. There were no photographs of them in the house.

When he had been younger, Harry had dreamed and dreamed of some unknown

relation coming to take him away, but it had never happened; the

Dursleys were his only family. Yet sometimes he thought (or maybe hoped)

that strangers in the street seemed to know him. Very strange strangers

they were, too. A tiny man in a violet top hat had bowed to him once

while out shopping with Aunt Petunia and Dudley. After asking Harry

furiously if he knew the man, Aunt Petunia had rushed them out of the

shop without buying anything. A wild-looking old woman dressed all in

green had waved merrily at him once on a bus. A bald man in a very long

purple coat had actually shaken his hand in the street the other day and

then walked away without a word. The weirdest thing about all these

people was the way they seemed to vanish the second Harry tried to get a

23

closer look.

At school, Harry had no one. Everybody knew that Dudley’s gang hated

that odd Harry Potter in his baggy old clothes and broken glasses, and

nobody liked to disagree with Dudley’s gang.

What is the CDR format generated by ZTE NEs?

Comma Seperated

0
Amandeep Arora
============================================

Question
what is the difference between collision domain and
broadcast domain?

Answer
Collision domain is the group of hosts in which collision
can occur but broadcast domain consists of all the groups of
hosts that can proceed the broadcast frame. Broadcast domain
may be collision domain but Collision domain may not be
broadcast domain.

=========================
Question
What is the main difference between GSM & CDMA?
Rank Answer Posted By

Answer
gsm is global system for mobile communication. it uses fdma
& tdma.

cdma:- it stands for code division mutiple access.

0
Ramesh

Answer
gsm is stands for global system for mobile communication. it
use tdma & fdma techniques as access mechanism . in gsm we
devide bandwidth in to time slots for better utilization of
bandwidth.

cdma stands for code devision muliple access it use cdma
techniques as access mechanism . in cdma we allocate a
unique code for every user saparately and allocate bandwidth
to user

0
Subodh Sharma
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
GSM and CDMA techniques can be explained with an example
suppose there are 10 persons in a room and they want to
communicate with each other .How can they communicate?
First method:One persons speaks at one time that means we
have provided a definite time interval to that person.-GSM
Second method :all the peers speak at a time in a different
language which we call as CDMA

0
Akshay
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
The main difference between GSM and CDMA is: In GSM, the
entire frequency band is not available to the end-user,
while in CDMA the entire frequency band is available to the
end-user. So, the Frequency Re-use factor is 1 in CDMA.

GSM Works as follows:
———————
The entire frequency band is divided into chunks and
each such chunk is divided into timeslots and each such
portion is made available to a user.

CDMA Works as follows:
———————–
The entire frequency band is available to the user. So,
in order to differentiate, the transmission from each user
is “spread” or coded using an unique code given to
individual user. At the receiving end, the spread
information is decoded.

0
Sudhindra S Kulkarni
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
GSM is a Global Syatem For Mobile Communication.

GSM Operates 3 bands, 1) GSM 900 2) GSM 1800 and 3) GSM
1900.

GSM 900 & GSM 1800 are used in india, But, GSM 1900 used in
USA.

GSM and CDMA techniques can be explained with an example,

suppose there are 10 persons in a room and they want to
communicate with each other .How can they communicate?
First method:One persons speaks at one time that means we
have provided a definite time interval to that person.-GSM
Second method :all the peers speak at a time in a different
language which we call as CDMA

CDMA stands for Code Division Multiple Access and GSM
stands for Global system for Mobile Communication.
In CDMA phones the software is integral with the phone
instrument and in the case of GSM phones it is through the
SIM Card.

CDMA phone instruments are dedicated to the service
provider. GSM phone instruments are portable across service
providers through SIM cards.

3
Manimaran
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
gsm is stand by globle system for mobile communication,gsm
frequency band is 900mhz-1800mhz,this is communicate all
rural area in all time,cdma is same frequency band but can
not available in rural area in all time.

0
Ramachandran.k
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
gsm is global system for mobile communication . here MS is
equipped with sim .
CDMA is a code division multiple access MS is not equipped
with sim .

0
Vrp
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
hi Vrp
what do u mean by MS ???? is this mobile station ?????

Then there is something wrong in ur ansr

Thanks
AKshay

Email: akshay_bali2001@yahoo.co.in

0
Akshay
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
mobile statio(M.S)=mobile equipmemt(M.E)+ SIM (subscriber
identity module)

satya_823@yahoo.co.in

0
Satya
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
GSM: In GSM only 30 or 35 peoples can call at at time in a
singal carrier but In CDMA apprx 70 peoples can call in a
singal carrier at a time.

0
Gyan Singh
[Alpine Solution Pvt. Ltd]

Answer
In cellular service there are two main competing network
technologies: Global System for Mobile Communications (GSM)
and Code Division Multiple Access (CDMA). Cellular carriers
including Sprint PCS, Cingular Wireless, Verizon and T-
Mobile use one or the other. Understanding the difference
between GSM and CDMA will allow you to choose a carrier
that uses the preferable network technology for your needs.
The GSM Association is an international organization
founded in 1987, dedicated to providing, developing, and
overseeing the worldwide wireless standard of GSM. CDMA, a
proprietary standard designed by Qualcomm in the United
States, has been the dominant network standard for North
America and parts of Asia. However, GSM networks continue
to make inroads in the United States, as CDMA networks make
progress in other parts of the world. There are camps on
both sides that firmly believe either GSM or CDMA
architecture is superior to the other. That said, to the
non-invested consumer who simply wants bottom line
information to make a choice, the following considerations
may be helpful.
Coverage: The most important factor is getting service in
the areas you will be using your phone. Upon viewing
competitors’ coverage maps you may discover that only GSM
or CDMA carriers offer cellular service in your area. If
so, there is no decision to be made, but most people will
find that they do have a choice.
Data Transfer Speed: With the advent of cellular phones
doing double and triple duty as streaming video devices,
podcast receivers and email devices, speed is important to
those who use the phone for more than making calls. CDMA
has been traditionally faster than GSM, though both
technologies continue to rapidly leapfrog along this path.
Both boast “3G” standards, or 3rd generation technologies.
EVDO, also known as CDMA2000, is CDMA’s answer to the need
for speed with a downstream rate of about 2 megabits per
second, though some reports suggest real world speeds are
closer to 300-700 kilobits per second (kbps). This is
comparable to basic DSL. As of fall 2005, EVDO is in the
process of being deployed. It is not available everywhere
and requires a phone that is CDMA2000 ready.
GSM’s answer is EDGE (Enhanced Data Rates for GSM
Evolution), which boasts data rates of up to 384 kbps with
real world speeds reported closer to 70-140 kbps. With
added technologies still in the works that include UMTS
(Universal Mobile Telephone Standard) and HSDPA (High Speed
Downlink Packet Access), speeds reportedly increase to
about 275—380 kbps. This technology is also known as W-
CDMA, but is incompatible with CDMA networks. An EDGE-ready
phone is required.
In the case of EVDO, theoretical high traffic can degrade
speed and performance, while the EDGE network is more
susceptible to interference. Both require being within
close range of a cell to get the best speeds, while
performance decreases with distance.
Subscriber Identity Module (SIM) cards: In the United
States only GSM phones use SIM cards. The removable SIM
card allows phones to be instantly activated, interchanged,
swapped out and upgraded, all without carrier intervention.
The SIM itself is tied to the network, rather than the
actual phone. Phones that are card-enabled can be used with
any GSM carrier.
The CDMA equivalent, a R-UIM card, is only available in
parts of Asia but remains on the horizon for the U.S.
market. CDMA carriers in the U.S. require proprietary
handsets that are linked to one carrier only and are not
card-enabled. To upgrade a CDMA phone, the carrier must
deactivate the old phone then activate the new one. The old
phone becomes useless.
Roaming: For the most part, both networks have fairly
concentrated coverage in major cities and along major
highways. GSM carriers, however, have roaming contracts
with other GSM carriers, allowing wider coverage of more
rural areas, generally speaking, often without roaming
charges to the customer. CDMA networks may not cover rural
areas as well as GSM carriers, and though they may contract
with GSM cells for roaming in more rural areas, the charge
to the customer will generally be significantly higher.
International Roaming: If you need to make calls to other
countries, a GSM carrier can offer international roaming,
as GSM networks dominate the world market. If you travel to
other countries you can even use your GSM cell phone
abroad, providing it is a quad-band phone
(850/900/1800/1900 MHz). By purchasing a SIM card with
minutes and a local number in the country you are visiting,
you can make calls against the card to save yourself
international roaming charges from your carrier back home.
CDMA phones that are not card-enabled do not have this
capability, however there are several countries that use
CDMA networks. Check with your CDMA provider for your
specific requirements.
According CDG.org, CDMA networks support over 270 million
subscribers worldwide, while GSM.org tallies up their score
at over 1 billion. As CDMA phones become R-UIM enabled and
roaming contracts between networks improve, integration of
the standards might eventually make differences all but
transparent to the consumer.
The chief GSM carriers in the United States are Cingular
Wireless, recently merged with AT&T Wireless, and T-Mobile
USA. Major CDMA carriers are Sprint PCS, Verizon and Virgin
Mobile. There are also several smaller cellular companies
on both networks.
Code division multiple access (CDMA) is a form of
multiplexing and a method of multiple access to a physical
medium such as a radio channel, where different users use
the medium at the same time thanks to using different code
sequences.
A number of terms are used to refer to CDMA
implementations. The original US standard defined by
QUALCOMM was known as IS-95, where IS refers to an Interim
Standard of the US Telecommunications Industry Association.
IS-95 is often referred to as the second generation (2G)
cellular, or as cdmaOne (the QUALCOMM brand name). CDMA has
been submitted for approval as a mobile air interface
standard to the International Telecommunication Union (ITU).
Whereas the Global System for Mobile Communications (GSM)
standard is a specification of an entire network
infrastructure, the CDMA interface relates only to the air
interface—the radio part of the technology. For example,
GSM specifies an infrastructure based on internationally
approved standard, while CDMA allows each operator to
provide the network features as it finds suited. On the air
interface, the signalling suite (GSM: ISDN SS7) work has
been progressing to harmonise these features.
After a couple of revisions, IS-95 was superseded by the IS-
2000 standard (CDMA2000). This standard was introduced to
meet some of the criteria laid out in the IMT-2000
specification for third generation (3G) cellular. It is
also called 1xRTT which means “1 times Radio Transmission
Technology” because IS-2000 uses the same 1.25 MHz carrier
shared channel as the original IS-95 standard. A related
scheme called 3xRTT uses three 1.25 MHz carriers for a 3.75
MHz bandwidth that would allow higher data burst rates for
an individual user, but the 3xRTT scheme has not been
commercially deployed. More recently, QUALCOMM has led the
creation of a new CDMA-based technology called Evolution-
Data Optimized (1xEV-DO, or IS-856), which provides the
higher packet data transmission rates required by IMT-2000
and desired by wireless network operators.
This CDMA system is frequently confused with a similar but
incompatible technology called Wideband Code Division
Multiple Access (W-CDMA) which is the basis of the W-CDMA
air interface. The W-CDMA air interface is used in the
global 3G standard UMTS and the Japanese 3G standard FOMA,
by NTT DoCoMo and Vodafone; however, the CDMA family of US
national standards (including cdmaOne and CDMA2000) are not
compatible with the W-CDMA family of ITU standards.
Another important application of code division
multiplexing — predating and distinct from CDMA — is the
Global Positioning System (GPS).
The QUALCOMM CDMA system includes very accurate time
signals (usually referenced to a GPS receiver in the cell
base station), so cell phone CDMA-based clocks are an
increasingly popular type of radio clock for use in
computer networks. The main advantage of using CDMA cell
phone signals for reference clock purposes is that they
work better inside buildings, thus often eliminating the
need to mount a GPS antenna outside a building.

0
Shashi

Out of 1,48,735 candidates who had applied for the VIT Engineering Engineering Entrance Examination (VITEEE)-2009, about 1.43 lakh appeared for the examination on Saturday. It was conducted by the VIT University, Vellore, at 188 centres in 70 cities and in a lone centre in Dubai, the only overseas centre, to fill 2,150 seats in 12 B.Tech. programmes .

 James Jebaseelan Samuel, Admission Officer, VIT University, said that Delhi had a maximum of 15 centres, with over 11,600 candidates taking the examination.

In Tamil Nadu, the examination was held in Vellore, Chennai, Coimbatore, Madurai, Tiruchi, Tirunelveli and Salem. The examination was held in five centres in Chennai. Out of the 2,626 candidates who had applied for taking the examination at Vellore, 2,533 appeared for the test.

Undergraduate program-mes offered by the VIT University comprised three under the School of Biotechnology, Chemical & Biomedical Engineering (SBCBE) - B.Tech. in biotechnololgy, bioinfo-rmatics and biomedical engineering, four under the School of Mechanical and Building Sciences (SMBS) - B.Tech. in mechanical engineering, mechanical and energy engineering, civil engineering and chemical engineering, three under the School of Electrical Sciences (SES) - B Tech. in electrical and electronics engineering (EEE), electronics and communication engineering (ECE) and electronics and instrumentation engineering (EIE), and two under the School of Computing Sciences (SCS)— B.Tech. in computer science and engineering (CSE) and Information Technology.

VIT Chancellor G Viswanathan supervised the examination at the Jaipur centre, Pro-Chancellor Sekar Viswanathan at the Dubai centre and Pro-Chancellor G V  Selvam at the Chandigarh centre. The Admission Officer and Murugas-undaramoorthy, professor of mathematics in the School of Science and Humanities, supervised the examination in the VIT University, the lone centre in Vellore. Results on or before May 9.

The results would be published on the following websites on or before May 9:
www.vit.ac.in,

www.globalinfowings.com,
www.indiaresults.com,
www.mysuccess.in,

www.chennaionline.com,
and www.schools9.com.

 

 

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