"Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you," said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses, "Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren't you, Potter?"

 

"Yeah, I am," said Harry. "Glad we straightened that out."

 

And turning his back on the Minister of Magic, he strode back toward the house.

Chapter 17: A Sluggish Memory

 

 

Late in the afternoon, a few days after New Year, Harry, Ron, and Ginny lined up beside the kitchen fire to return to Hogwarts. The Ministry had arranged this one-off connection to the Floo Network to return students quickly and safely to the school. Only Mrs. Weasley was there to say good-bye, as Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, Bill, and Fleur were all at work. Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears at the moment of parting. Admittedly, it took very little to set her off lately; she had been crying on and off ever since Percy had stormed from the house on Christmas Day with his glasses splattered with mashed parsnip (for which Fred, George, and Ginny all claimed credit).

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"Don't cry, Mum," said Ginny, patting her on the back as Mrs. Weasley sobbed into her shoulder. "It's okay. ..."

 

"Yeah, don't worry about us," said Ron, permitting his mother to plant a very wet kiss on his cheek, "or about Percy. He's such a prat, it's not really a loss, is it?"

 

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever as she enfolded Harry in her arms.

 

"Promise me you'll look after yourself.. .. Stay out of trouble. ..."

 

"I always do, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry. "I like a quiet life, you know me."

 

She gave a watery chuckle and stood back. "Be good, then, all of you. ..."

 

Harry stepped into the emerald fire and shouted "Hogwarts!" He had one last fleeting view of the Weasleys' kitchen and Mrs. Weasley's tearful face before the flames engulfed him; spinning very fast, he caught blurred glimpses of other Wizarding rooms, which were whipped out of sight before he could get a proper look; then he was slowing down, finally stopping squarely in the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. She barely glanced up from her work as he clambered out over the grate.

 

"Evening, Potter. Try not to get too much ash on the carpet."

 

"No, Professor."

 

Harry straightened his glasses and flattened his hair as Ron came spinning into view. When Ginny had arrived, all three of them trooped out of McGonagall's office and off toward Gryffindor Tower. Harry glanced out of the corridor windows as they passed; the sun was already sinking over grounds carpeted in deeper snow than had lain over the Burrow garden. In the distance, he could see Hagrid feeding Buckbeak in front of his cabin.

 

"Baubles," said Ron confidently, when they reached the Fat Lady, who was looking rather paler than usual and winced at his loud voice.

 

"No," she said.

 

“What d’you mean, ‘no’ ?

 

"There is a new password," she said. "And please don't shout."

 

"But we've been away, how're we supposed to — ?"

 

"Harry! Ginny!"

 

Hermione was hurrying toward them, very pink-faced and wearing a cloak, hat, and gloves.

 

"I got back a couple of hours ago, I've just been down to visit Hagrid and Buck — I mean Witherwings," she said breathlessly. "Did you have a good Christmas?"

 

"Yeah," said Ron at once, "pretty eventful, Rufus Scrim —" ] "I've got something for you, Harry," said Hermione, neither looking at Ron nor giving any sign that she had heard him. "Oh, hang on — password. Abstinence."

 

"Precisely," said the Fat Lady in a feeble voice, and swung forward to reveal the portrait hole.

 

"What's up with her?" asked Harry.

 

"Overindulged over Christmas, apparently," said Hermione, rolling her eyes as she led the way into the packed common room. "She and her friend Violet drank their way through all the wine in that picture of drunk monks down by the Charms corridor. Anyway..."

 

She rummaged in her pocket for a moment, then pulled out a scroll of parchment with Dumbledore's writing on it.

 

"Great," said Harry, unrolling it at once to discover that his next lesson with Dumbledore was scheduled for the following night. "I’ve got loads to tell him — and you. Let's sit down —"

 

But at that moment there was a loud squeal of "Won-Won!" and Lavender Brown came hurtling out of nowhere and flung herself into Ron's arms. Several onlookers sniggered; Hermione gave a tinkling laugh and said, "There's a cable over here... Coming. Ginny?" 

 

"No, thanks, I said I'd meet Dean," said Ginny, though Harry could not help noticing that she did not sound very enthusiastic. Leaving Ron and Lavender locked in a kind of vertical wrestling, match, Harry led Hermione over to the spare table.

 

"So how was your Christmas?"

 

"Oh, fine," she shrugged. "Nothing special. How was it at Won-Won's?"

 

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"I'll tell you in a minute," said Harry. "Look, Hermione, can't you —"

 

"No, I can't," she said flatly. "So don't even ask."

 

"I thought maybe, you know, over Christmas —"

 

"It was the Fat Lady who drank a vat of five-hundred-year-old wine, Harry, not me. So what was this important news you wanted to tell me?"

 

She looked too fierce to argue with at that moment, so Harry dropped the subject of Ron and recounted all that he had overheard between Malfoy and Snape. When he had finished, Hermione sat in thought for a moment and then said, "Don't you think — ?"

 

"— he was pretending to offer help so that he could trick Malfoy into telling him what he's doing?"

 

"Well, yes," said Hermione.

 

"Ron’s dad and Lupin think so," Harry said grudgingly. "But this definitely proves Malfoy’s planning something, you can't deny that."

 

"No, I can't," she answered slowly.

 

"And he's acting on Voldemort's orders, just like I said!"

 

"Hmm .. . did either of them actually mention Voldemort's name?"

 

Harry frowned, trying to remember. "I'm not sure ... Snape definitely said 'your master,' and who else would that be?"

 

"I don't know," said Hermione, biting her lip. "Maybe his father?"

 

She stared across the room, apparently lost in thought, not even noticing Lavender tickling Ron. "How's Lupin?"

 

"Not great," said Harry, and he told her all about Lupin’s mission among the werewolves and the difficulties he was facing. "Have you heard of this Fenrir Greyback?"

 

"Yes, I have!" said Hermione, sounding startled. "And so have you, Harry!"

 

"When, History of Magic? You know full well I never listened ..."

 

"No, no, not History of Magic — Malfoy threatened Borgin with Kim!" said Hermione. "Back in Knockturn Alley, don't you remember? He told Borgin that Greyback was an old family friend and that he'd be checking up on Borgin's progress!"

 

Harry gaped at her. "I forgot! But this proves Malfoy s a Death Eater, how else could he be in contact with Greyback and telling him what to do?"

 

"It is pretty suspicious," breathed Hermione. "Unless . . ." "Oh, come on," said Harry in exasperation, "you can't get round this one!"

 

"Well . . . there is the possibility it was an empty threat." "You're unbelievable, you are," said Harry, shaking his head.

 

"We'll see who's right. . . . You'll be eating your words, Hermione, just like the Ministry. Oh yeah, 1 had a row with Rufus Scrimgeour as well. . . ."

 

And the rest of the evening passed amicably with both of them abusing the Minister of Magic, for Hermione, like Ron, thought that after all the Ministry had put Harry through the previous year, they had a great deal of nerve asking him for help now.

 

The new term started next morning with a pleasant surprise for the sixth years: a large sign had been pinned to the common room notice boards overnight.

 

 

 

APPARITION LESSONS

 

If you are seventeen years of age, or will turn seventeen on or before the 31st August next, you are eligible for a twelve-week course of Apparition Lessons from a Ministry of Magic Apparition instructor. Please sign below if you would like to participate. Cost: 12 Galleons.

 

 

 

Harry and Ron joined the crowd that was jostling around the notice and taking it in turns to write their names at the bottom. Ron was just taking out his quill to sign after Hermione when Lavender crept up behind him, slipped her hands over his eyes, and trilled, "Guess who, Won-Won?" Harry turned to see Hermione stalking off; he caught up with her, having no wish to stay behind with Ron and Lavender, but to his surprise, Ron caught up with them only a little way beyond the portrait hole, his ears bright red and his expression disgruntled. Without a word, Hermione sped up to walk with Neville.

 

"So — Apparition," said Ron, his tone making it perfectly plain that Harry was not to mention what had just happened. "Should be a laugh, eh?"

 

"I dunno," said Harry. "Maybe it's better when you do it yourself, I didn’t enjoy it much when Dumbledore took me along for the ride."

 

"I forgot you'd already done it. ... I'd better pass my test first

 

time," said Ron, looking anxious. "Fred and George did," "Charlie failed, though, didn't he?" "Yeah, but Charlie's bigger than me" — Ron held his arms out from his body as though he was a gorilla — "so Fred and George

 

didn't go on about it much . . . not to his face anyway . . ." "When can we take the actual test?" "Soon as we're seventeen. That's only March for me!" "Yeah, but you wouldn't be able to Apparate in here, not in the castle . . ."

 

"Not the point, is it? Everyone would know I could Apparate if I wanted."

 

Ron was not the only one to be excited at the prospect of Apparition. All that day there was much talk about the forthcoming , lessons; a great deal of store was set by being able to vanish and reappear at will.

 

"How cool will it be when we can just —" Seamus clicked his ringers to indicate disappearance. "Me cousin Fergus does it just to annoy me, you wait till I can do it back. . . He'll never have another peaceful moment. . . ."

 

Lost in visions of this happy prospect, he flicked his wand a little too enthusiastically, so that instead of producing the fountain of pure water that was the object of today's Charms lesson, he let out a hoselike jet that ricocheted off the ceiling and knocked Professor Flitwick flat on his face.

 

"Harry’s already Apparated," Ron told a slightly abashed Seamus, after Professor Flitwick had dried himself off with a wave of his wand and set Seamus lines: "I am a wizard, not a baboon brandishing a stick." "Dum — er — someone took him. Side-Along-Apparition, you know."

 

"Whoa!" whispered Seamus, and he, Dean, and Neville put their heads a little closer to hear what Apparition felt like. For the rest of the day, Harry was besieged with requests from the other sixth years to describe the sensation of Apparition. All of them seemed awed, rather than put off, when he told them how uncomfortable it was, and he was still answering detailed questions at ten to eight that evening, when he was forced to lie and say that he needed to return a book to the library, so as to escape in time for his lesson with Dumbledore.

 

The lamps in Dumbledore’s office were lit, the portraits of previous headmasters were snoring gently in their frames, and the Pen-sieve was ready upon the desk once more. Dumbledore’s hands lay on either side of it, the right one as blackened and burnt-looking as ever. It did not seem to have healed at all and Harry wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, what had caused such a distinctive injury, but did not ask; Dumbledore had said that he would know eventually and there was, in any case, another subject he wanted to discuss. But before Harry could say anything about Snape and Malfoy, Dumbledore spoke.

 

"I hear that you met the Minister of Magic over Christmas?" "Yes," said Harry. "He's not very happy with me."

 

"No," sighed Dumbledore. "He is not very happy with me either. We must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Harry, but battle on."

 

Harry grinned.

 

"He wanted me to tell the Wizarding community that the Ministry's doing a wonderful job.'

 

Dumbledore smiled.

 

"It was Fudge's idea originally, you know. During his last days in office, when he was trying desperately to cling to his post, he sought a meeting with you, hoping that you would give him your

 

support —"

 

"After everything Fudge did last year?" said Harry angrily. "After Umbridge ?”

 

"I told Cornelius there was no chance of it, but the idea did not die when he left: office. Within hours of Scrimgeour's appointment we met and he demanded that I arrange a meeting with you —"

 

"So that's why you argued!" Harry blurted out. "It was in the Daily Prophet"'

 

"The Prophet is bound to report the truth occasionally," said Dumbledore, "if only accidentally. Yes, that was why we argued. Well, it appears that Rufus found a way to corner you at last."

 

"He accused me of being 'Dumbledore's man through and through.'"

 

"How very rude of him."

 

"I told him I was."

 

Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Behind Harry, Fawkes the phoenix let out a low, soft, musical cry. To Harry’s intense embarrassment, he suddenly realized

 

that Dumbledore's bright blue eyes looked rather watery, ami stared hastily at his own knees. When Dumbledore spoke, however, his voice was quite steady.

 

"I am very touched, Harry."

 

"Scrimgeour wanted to know where you go when you're not at Hogwarts," said Harry, still looking fixedly at his knees.

 

"Yes, he is very nosy about that," said Dumbledore, now sounding cheerful, and Harry thought it safe to look up again. "He has even attempted to have me followed. Amusing, really. He set Dawlish to tail me. It wasn't kind. I have already been forced to jinx Dawlish once; I did it again with the greatest regret."

 

"So they still don't know where you go?" asked Harry, hoping for more information on this intriguing subject, but Dumbledore merely smiled over the top of his half-moon spectacles.

 

"No, they don't, and the time is not quite right for you to know either. Now, I suggest we press on, unless there's anything else — ?" "There is, actually, sir," said Harry. "It's about Malfoy and Snape."

 

"Professor Snape, Harry."

 

"Yes, sir. I overheard them during Professor Slughorns party . . . well, I followed them, actually. ..."

 

Dumbledore listened to Harry's story with an impassive face. When Harry had finished he did not speak for a few moments, then said, "Thank you for telling me this, Harry, but I suggest that you put it out of your mind. I do not think that it is of great importance."

 

"Not of great importance?" repeated Harry incredulously. "Professor, did you understand — ?"

 

"Yes, Harry, blessed as I am with extraordinary brainpower, I understood everything you told me," said Dumbledore, a little sharply. "I think you might even consider the possibility that I understood more than you did. Again, I am glad that you have con-lided in me, but let me reassure you that you have not told me anything that causes me disquiet."

 

Harry sat in seething silence, glaring at Dumbledore. What was going on? Did this mean that Dumbledore had indeed ordered Snape to find out what Malfoy was doing, in which case he had already heard everything Harry had just told him from Snape? Or was he really worried by what he had heard, but pretending not to be?

 

"So, sir," said Harry, in what he hoped was a polite, calm voice, "you definitely still trust — ?"

 

"I have been tolerant enough to answer that question already," said Dumbledore, but he did not sound very tolerant anymore. "My answer has not changed."

 

"I should think not," said a snide voice; Phineas Nigellus was evidently only pretending to be asleep. Dumbledore ignored him.

 

"And now, Harry, I must insist that we press on. I have more important things to discuss with you this evening."

 

Harry sat there feeling mutinous. How would it be if he refused to permit the change of subject, if he insisted upon arguing the case against Malfoy? As though he had read Harry's mind, Dumbledore shook his head.

 

"Ah, Harry, how often this happens, even between the best of friends! Each of us believes that what he has to say is much more important than anything the other might have to contribute!"

 

"I don't think what you've got to say is unimportant, sir," said Harry stiffly.

 

"Well, you are quite right, because it is not," said Dumbledore briskly. "I have two more memories to show you this evening, both obtained with enormous difficulty, and the second of them is, 1 think, the most important I have collected."

 

Harry did not say anything to this; he still felt angry at the reception his confidences had received, but could not see what was to be gained by arguing further.

 

"So," said Dumbledore, in a ringing voice, "we meet this evening to continue the tale of Tom Riddle, whom we left last lesson poised on the threshold of his years at Hogwarts. You will remember how excited he was to hear that he was a wizard, that he refused my company on a trip to Diagon Alley, and that I, in turn, warned him against continued thievery when he arrived at school.

 

"Well, the start of the school year arrived and with it came Tom Riddle, a quiet boy in his secondhand robes, who lined up with the other first years to be sorted. He was placed in Slytherin House almost the moment that the Sorting Hat touched his head," continued Dumbledore, waving his blackened hand toward the shelf over his head where the Sorting Hat sat, ancient and unmoving. "How soon Riddle learned that the famous founder of the House could talk to snakes, I do not know — perhaps that very evening. The knowledge can only have excited him and increased his sense of self-importance.

 

"However, if he was frightening or impressing fellow Slytherins with displays of Parseltongue in their common room, no hint of it reached the staff. He showed no sign of outward arrogance or aggression at all. As an unusually talented and very good-looking orphan, he naturally drew attention and sympathy from the staff almost from the moment of his arrival. He seemed police, quiet, and thirsty for knowledge. Nearly all were most favorably impressed by him."

 

"Didn't you tell them, sir, what he'd been like when you met him at the orphanage?" asked Harry.

 

"No, I did not. Though he had shown no hint of remorse, it was possible that he felt sorry for how he had behaved before and was resolved to turn over a fresh leaf. I chose to give him that chance."

 

Dumbledore paused and looked inquiringly at Harry, who had opened his mouth to speak. Here, again, was Dumbledore's tendency to trust people in spite of overwhelming evidence that they did not deserve it! But then Harry remembered something. . . .

 

"But you didn't really trust him, sir, did you? He told me . . . the Riddle who came out of that diary said, 'Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did.'"

 

"Let us say that I did not take it for granted that he was trustworthy," said Dumbledore. "I had, as I have already indicated, resolved to keep a close eye upon him, and so I did. I cannot pretend that I gleaned a great deal from my observations at first. He was very guarded with me; he felt, I am sure, that in the thrill of discovering his true identity he had told me a little too much. He was careful never to reveal as much again, but he could not take back what he had let slip in his excitement, nor what Mrs. Cole had confided in me. However, he had the sense never to try and charm me as he charmed so many of my colleagues.

 

"As he moved up the school, he gathered about him a group of dedicated friends; I call them that, for want of a better term, although as I have already indicated, Riddle undoubtedly felt no affection for any of them. This group had a kind of dark glamour within the castle. They were a motley collection; a mixture of the weak seeking protection, the ambitious seeking some shared glory, and the thuggish gravitating toward a leader who could show them more refined forms of cruelty. In other words, they were the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed some of them became the first Death Eaters after leaving Hogwarts.

 

"Rigidly controlled by Riddle, they were never detected in open wrongdoing, although their seven years at Hogwarts were marked by a number of nasty incidents to which they were never satisfactorily linked, the most serious of which was, of course, the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, which resulted in the death of a girl. As you know, Hagrid was wrongly accused of that crime.

 

"I have not been able to find many memories of Riddle at Hogwarts," said Dumbledore, placing his withered hand on the Pensieve. "Few who knew him then are prepared to talk about him; they are too terrified. What I know, I found out after he had left Hogwarts, after much painstaking effort, after tracing those few who could be tricked into speaking, after searching old records and questioning Muggle and wizard witnesses alike.

 

"Those whom I could persuade to talk told me that Riddle was obsessed with his parentage. This is understandable, of course; he had grown up in an orphanage and naturally wished to know how he came to be there. It seems that he searched in vain for some trace of Tom Riddle senior on the shields in the trophy room, on the lists of prefects in the old school records, even in the books of Wizarding history. Finally he was forced to accept that his father had never set foot in Hogwarts. I believe that it was then that he dropped the name forever, assumed the identity of Lord Volde-mort, and began his investigations into his previously despised mother's family — the woman whom, you will remember, he had thought could not be a witch if she had succumbed to the shameful human weakness of death.

 

"All he had to go upon was the single name 'Marvolo,' which he knew from those who ran the orphanage had been his mother's father's name. Finally, after painstaking research, through old books of Wizarding families, he discovered the existence of Slytherin's surviving line. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage to which he returned annually and set off to find his Gaunt relatives. And now, Harry, if you will stand ..." :

 

Dumbledore rose, and Harry saw that he was again holding a. small crystal bottle filled with swirling, pearly memory.

 

"I was very lucky to collect this," he said, as he poured the gleaming mass into the Pensieve. "As you will understand when we have experienced it. Shall we?"

 

Harry stepped up to the stone basin and bowed obediently until his face sank through the surface of the memory; he felt the familiar sensation of falling through nothingness and then landed upon a dirty stone floor in almost total darkness.

 

It took him several seconds to recognize the place, by which time Dumbledore had landed beside him. The Gaunts' house was now more indescribably filthy than anywhere Harry had ever seen. The ceiling was thick with cobwebs, the floor coated in grime; moldy and rotting food lay upon the table amidst a mass of crusted pots. The only light came from a single guttering candle placed at the feet of a man with hair and beard so overgrown Harry could see neither eyes nor mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fire, and Harry wondered for a moment whether he was dead. But

 

then there came a loud knock on the door and the man jerked awake, raising a wand in his right hand and a short knife in his left.

 

The door creaked open. There on the threshold, holding an old-fashioned lamp, stood a boy Harry recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, and handsome — the teenage Voldemort.

 

Voldemort's eyes moved slowly around the hovel and then found the man in the armchair. For a few seconds they looked at each other, then the man staggered upright, the many empty bottles at his feet clattering and tinkling across the floor.

 

"YOU!" he bellowed. "YOU!"

 

And he hurtled drunkenly at Riddle, wand and knife held aloft.

 

"Stop."

 

Riddle spoke in Parseltongue. The man skidded into the table, sending moldy pots crashing to the floor. He stared at Riddle. There was a long silence while they contemplated each other. The man broke it.

 

"You speak it?"

 

"Yes, I speak it," said Riddle. He moved forward into the room, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. Harry could not help but feel a resentful admiration for Voldemort's complete lack of fear. His race merely expressed disgust and, perhaps, disappointment.

 

"Where is Marvolo?" he asked.

 

"Dead," said the other. "Died years ago, didn't he?"

 

Riddle frowned.

 

"Who are you, then?"

 

"I’m Morfin, ain't I?"

 

"Marvolo's son?"

 

"'Course I am, then..." • ,, .

 

Morfin pushed the hair out of his dirty face, the better to see Riddle, and Harry saw that he wore Marvolo's black-stoned ring on his right hand.

 

"I thought you was that Muggle," whispered Morfin. "You look mighty like that Muggle."

 

"What Muggle?" said Riddle sharply.

 

"That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, that Muggle what lives in the big house over the way," said Morfin, and he spat unexpectedly upon the floor between them. "You look right like him. Riddle. But he's older now, in 'e? He's older'n you, now I think on it. ..."

 

Morfin looked slightly dazed and swayed a little, still clutching the edge of the table for support. "He come back, see," he added stupidly.

 

Voldemort was gazing at Morfin as though appraising his possibilities. Now he moved a little closer and said, "Riddle came back?"

 

"Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marrying filth!" said Morfin, spitting on the floor again. "Robbed us, mind, before she ran off. , Where's the locket, eh, where's Slytherin's locket?"

 

Voldemort did not answer. Morfin was working himself into a rage again; he brandished his knife and shouted, "Dishonored us, , she did, that little slut! And whore you, coming here and asking questions about all that? It's over, innit. . . . It's over. ..."

 

He looked away, staggering slightly, and Voldemort moved forward. As he did so, an unnatural darkness fell, extinguishing Voldemort's lamp and Morfin's candle, extinguishing everything. . . . Dumbledore's fingers closed tightly around Harry's arm and they were soaring back into the present again. The soft golden light in Dumbledore's office seemed to dazzle Harry's eyes after that impenetrable darkness. 

 

"Is that all?" said Harry at once. "Why did it go dark, what happened?"

 

"Because Morfin could not remember anything from that point onward," said Dumbledore, gesturing Harry back into his seat. "When he awoke next morning, he was lying on the floor, quite alone. Marvolo's ring had gone.

 

"Meanwhile, in the village of Little Hangleton, a maid was running along the High Street, screaming that there were three bodies lying in the drawing room of the big house: Tom Riddle Senior and his mother and father.

 

"The Muggle authorities were perplexed. As far as I am aware, they do not know to this day how the Riddles died, for the Avadu Kedavra curse does not usually leave any sign of damage. . . . The exception sits before me," Dumbledore added, with a nod to Harry's scar. "The Ministry, on the other hand, knew at once that this was a wizard's murder. They also knew that a convicted Muggle-hater lived across the valley from the Riddle house, a Muggle-hater who had already been imprisoned once for attacking one of the murdered people.

 

"So the Ministry called upon Morfin. They did not need to question him, to use Veritaserum or Legilimency. He admitted to the murder on the spot, giving details only the murderer could know. He was proud, he said, to have killed the Muggles, had been awaiting his chance all these years. He handed over his wand, which was proved at once to have been used to kill the Riddles. And he permitted himself to be led off to Azkaban without a fight.

 

All that disturbed him was the fact that his fathers ring had disappeared. 'He'll kill me for losing it,' he told his captors over and over again. 'He'll kill me for losing his ring.' And that, apparently, was all he ever said again. He lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, lamenting the loss of Marvolo's last heirloom, and is buried beside the prison, alongside the other poor souls who have expired within its walls."

 

"So Voldemort stole Morfin's wand and used it?" said Harry, sitting up straight.

 

"That's right," said Dumbledore. "We have no memories to show us this, but I think we can be fairly sure what happened. Voldemort Stupefied his uncle, took his wand, and proceeded across the valley to 'the big house over the way.' There he murdered the Muggle man who had abandoned his witch mother, and, for good measure, his Muggle grandparents, thus obliterating the last of the unworthy Riddle line and revenging himself upon the father who never wanted him. Then he returned to the Gaunt hovel, performed the complex bit of magic that would implant a false memory in his uncle's mind, laid Morfin's wand beside its unconscious owner, pocketed the ancient ring he wore, and departed."

 

"And Morfin never realized he hadn't done it?"

 

"Never," said Dumbledore. "He gave, as I say, a full and boastful confession."

 

"But he had this real memory in him all the time!" "Yes, but it took a great deal of skilled Legilimency to coax it out of him," said Dumbledore, "and why should anybody delve further into Morfin's mind when he had already confessed to the crime? However, I was able to secure a visit to Morfin in the last weeks of his life, by which time I was attempting to discover as much as I could about Voldemort's past. I extracted this memory with difficulty. When I saw what it contained, I attempted to use it to secure Morfin's release from Azkaban. Before the Ministry reached their decision, however, Morfin had died."

 

"But how come the Ministry didn't realize that Voldemort had done all that to Morfin?" Harry asked angrily "He was underage at the time, wasn't he? I thought they could detect underage magic!" "You are quite right — they can detect magic, but not the perpetrator: You will remember that you were blamed by the Ministry for the Hover Charm that was, in fact, cast by —"

 

"Dobby," growled Harry; this injustice still rankled. "So if you're underage and you do magic inside an adult witch or wizard's house, the Ministry won't know?"

 

"They will certainly be unable to tell who performed the magic," said Dumbledore, smiling slightly at the look of great indignation on Harrys face. "They rely on witch and wizard parents to enforce their offspring's obedience while within their walls."

 

"Well, that's rubbish," snapped Harry. "Look what happened here, look what happened to Morfin!"

 

"I agree," said Dumbledore. "Whatever Morfin was, he did not deserve to die as he did, blamed for murders he had not committed. But it is getting late, and I want you to see this other memory before we part. ..."

 

Dumbledore took from an inside pocket another crystal phial and Harry fell silent at once, remembering that Dumbledore had said it was the most important one he had collected. Harry noticed that the contents proved difficult to empty into the Pensieve, as though they had congealed slightly; did memories go bad?

 

"This will not take long," said Dumbledore, when he had finally emptied the phial. "We shall be back before you know it. Once more into the Pensieve, then . . ."

 

And Harry fell again through the silver surface, landing this time right in front of a man he recognized at once.

 

It was a much younger Horace Slughorn. Harry was so used to him bald that he found the sight of Slughorn with thick, shiny, straw-colored hair quite disconcerting; it looked as though he had had his head thatched, though there was already a shiny Galleon-sized bald patch on his crown. His mustache, less massive than it was these days, was gingery-blond. He was not quite as rotund as the Slughorn Harry knew, though the golden buttons on his richly embroidered waistcoat were taking a fair amount of strain. His little feet resting upon a velvet pouffe, he was sitting well back in a comfortable winged armchair, one hand grasping a small glass of wine, the other searching through a box of crystalized pineapple.

 

Harry looked around as Dumbledore appeared beside him and saw that they were standing in Slughorn's office. Haifa dozen boys were sitting around Slughorn, all on harder or lower seats than his, and all in their mid-teens. Harry recognized Voldemort at once. His was the most handsome face and he looked the most relaxed of all the boys. His right hand lay negligently upon the arm of his chair; with a jolt, Harry saw that he was wearing Marvolo's gold-and-black ring; he had already killed his father.

 

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked.

 

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you," said Slughorn, wagging a reproving, sugar-covered finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect slightly by winking. "I must say, I'd like to know where you get your information, boy, more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are.”

 

Riddle smiled; the other boys laughed and cast him admiring looks.

 

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn’t, and your careful flattery of the people who matter — thank you fm the pineapple, by the way, you're quite right, it is my favorite — "

 

As several of the boys tittered, something very odd happened. The whole room was suddenly filled with a thick white fog, so that Harry could see nothing but the face of Dumbledore, who was standing beside him. Then Slughorn's voice rang out through the mist, unnaturally loudly, "You'll go wrong, boy, mark my words. "

 

The fog cleared as suddenly as it had appeared and yet nobody made any allusion to it, nor did anybody look as though anything unusual had just happened. Bewildered, Harry looked around as a small golden clock standing upon Slughorn's desk chimed eleven o'clock.

 

"Good gracious, is it that time already?" said Slughorn. "You'd better get going, boys, or we'll all be in trouble. Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention. Same goes for you, Avery."

 

Slughorn pulled himself out of his armchair and carried his empty glass over to his desk as the boys filed out. Voldemort, however, stayed behind. Harry could tell he had dawdled deliberately, wanting to be last in the room with Slughorn.

 

"Look sharp, Tom," said Slughorn, turning around and finding him still present. "You don't want to be caught out of bed out of hours, and you a prefect..."

 

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something."

 

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away...."

 

"Sir, I wondered what you know about. . . about Horcruxes?"

 

And it happened all over again: The dense fog filled the room so that Harry could not see Slughorn or Voldemort at all; only Dumbledore, smiling serenely beside him. Then Slughorn's voice boomed out again, just as it had done before.

 

"I don't know anything about Horcruxes and I wouldn't tell you if I did! Now get out of here at once and don’t let me catch you mentioning them again!"

 

"Well, that's that," said Dumbledore placidly beside Harry.

 

"Time to go."

 

And Harry's feet left the floor to fall, seconds later, back onto the

 

rug in front of Dumbledore's desk.

 

"That's all there is?" said Harry blankly.

 

Dumbledore had said that this was the most important memory of all, but he could not see what was so significant about it. Admittedly the fog, and the fact that nobody seemed to have noticed it, was odd, but other than that nothing seemed to have happened except that Voldemort had asked a question and failed to get an answer.

 

"As you might have noticed," said Dumbledore, reseating himself behind his desk, "that memory has been tampered with."

 

"Tampered with?" repeated Harry, sitting back down too.

 

"Certainly," said Dumbledore. "Professor Slughorn has meddled with his own recollections."

 

"But why would he do that?"

 

"Because, I think, he is ashamed of what he remembers," said Dumbledore. "He has tried to rework the memory to show himself in a better light, obliterating those parts which he does not wish me to see. It is, as you will have noticed, very crudely done, and that is all to the good, for it shows that the true memory is still there beneath the alterations.

 

"And so, for the first time, I am giving you homework, Harry. It will be your job to persuade Professor Slughorn to divulge the real memory, which will undoubtedly be our most crucial piece of information of all."

 

Harry stared at him.

 

"But surely, sir," he said, keeping his voice as respectful as possible, "you don't need me — you could use Legilimency ... or Veritaserum. ..."

 

"Professor Slughorn is an extremely able wizard who will be expecting both," said Dumbledore. "He is much more accomplished at Occlumency than poor Morfin Gaunt, and I would be astonished if he has not carried an antidote to Veritaserum with him ever since I coerced him into giving me this travesty of a recollection.

 

"No, I think it would be foolish to attempt to wrest the truth from Professor Slughorn by force, and might do much more harm than good; I do not wish him to leave Hogwarts. However, he has his weaknesses like the rest of us, and I believe that you are the one person who might be able to penetrate his defenses. It is most important that we secure the true memory, Harry. . . . How important, we will only know when we have seen the real thing. So, good luck . . . and good night."

 

A little taken aback by the abrupt dismissal, Harry got to his feet quickly. "Good night, sir."

 

As he closed the study door behind him, he distinctly heard Phineas Nigellus say, "I can't see why the boy should be able to do it better than you, Dumbledore."

 

"I wouldn't expect you to, Phineas," replied Dumbledore, and Fawkes gave another low, musical cry.

Chapter 18: Birthday Surprises

 

The next day Harry confided in both Ron and Hermione the task that Dumbledore had set him, though separately, for Hermione still refused to remain in Ron's presence longer than it took to give him a contemptuous look.

 

Ron thought that Harry was unlikely to have any trouble with Slughorn at all.

 

'He loves you,' he said over breakfast, waving an airy forkful of fried egg. 'Won't refuse you anything, will he? Not his little Potions Prince. Just hang back after class this afternoon and ask him.'

 

Hermione, however, took a gloomier view.

 

'He must be determined to hide what really happened if Dumbledore couldn't get it out of him,' she said in a low voice, as they stood in the deserted, snowy courtyard at break. 'Horcruxes ... Horcruxes ... I've never even heard of them ...'

 

'You haven't?'

 

Harry was disappointed; he had hoped that Hermione might have been able to give him a clue as to what Horcruxes were.

 

'They must be really advanced Dark magic, or why would Voldemort have wanted to know about them? I think it's going to be difficult to get the information, Harry, you'll have to be very careful about how you approach Slughorn, think out a strategy ..."

 

'Ron reckons 1 should just hang back after Potions this afternoon ...'

 

'Oh, well, if Won-Won thinks that, you'd better do it,' she said, flaring up at once. 'After all, when has Won-Won's judgement ever been faulty?'

 

'Hermione, can't you —'

 

'No!' she said angrily, and stormed away, leaving Harry alone and ankle-deep in snow.

 

Potions lessons were uncomfortable enough these days, seeing as Harry, Ron and Hermione had to share a desk. Today, Hermione moved her cauldron around the table so that she was close to Ernie, and ignored both Harry and Ron.

 

'What've you done?' Ron muttered to Harry, looking at Hermione's haughty profile.

 

But before Harry could answer, Slughorn was calling for silence from the front of the room.

 

'Settle down, settle down, please! Quickly, now, lots of work to get through this afternoon! Golpalott's Third Law ... who can tell me -? But Miss Granger can, of course!'

 

Hermione recited at top speed: 'Golpalott's-Third-Law- states-that-the-antidote-for-a-blended-poison-will-be-equal-to- more-than-the-sum-of-the-antidotes-for-each-of-the-separale- components.'

 

'Precisely!' beamed Slughorn. Ten points for Gryffindor! Now, if we accept Golpalott's Third Law as true ..."

 

Harry was going to have to take Slughorn's word for it that Golpalott's Third Law was true, because he had not under-stood any of it. Nobody apart from Hermione seemed to be following what Slughorn said next, either.

 

'... which means, of course, that assuming we have achieved correct identification of the potion's ingredients by Scarpin's Revelaspell, our primary aim is not the relatively simple one of selecting antidotes to those ingredients in a

 

of themselves, but to find that added component which will, by an almost alchemical process, transform these disparate elements -'

 

Ron was sitting beside Harry with his mouth half-open, doodling absently on his new copy of Advanced Potion-Making. Ron kept forgetting that he could no longer rely on Hermione to help him out of trouble when he failed to grasp what was going on.

 

'... and so,' finished Slughorn, 'I want each of you to come and take one of these phials from my desk. You are to create an antidote for the poison within it before the end of the lesson. Good luck, and don't forget your protective gloves!'

 

Hermione had left her stool and was halfway towards Siughorn's desk before the rest of the class had realised it was time to move, and by the time Harry, Ron and Ernie returned to the table, she had already tipped the contents of her phial into her cauldron and was kindling a fire underneath it.

 

'it's a shame that the Prince won't be able to help you much with this, Harry,' she said brightly as she straightened up. 'You have to understand the principles involved this time. No short cuts or cheats!'

 

Annoyed, Harry uncorked the poison he had taken from Siughorn's desk, which was a garish shade of pink, tipped it into his cauldron and lit a fire underneath it. He did not have the faintest idea what he was supposed to do next. He glanced at Ron, who was now standing there looking rather gormless, having copied everything Harry had done.

 

'You sure the Prince hasn't got any tips?' Ron muttered to Harry.

 

Harry pulled out his trusty copy of Advanced Potion-Making and turned to the chapter on Antidotes. There was Golpalott's Third Law, stated word for word as Hermione had recited it, but not a single illuminating note in the Prince's hand to explain what it meant. Apparently the Prince, like Hermione, had had no difficulty understanding it.

 

'Nothing,' said Harry gloomily.

 

Hermione was now waving her wand enthusiastically over her cauldron. Unfortunately, they could not copy the spell she was doing because she was now so good at non-verbal incan-tations that she did not need to say the words aloud. Ernie Macmillan, however, was muttering, 'Specialis revelio!' over his cauldron, which sounded impressive, so Harry and Ron hastened to imitate him.

 

It took Harry only five minutes to realise that his reputa-tion as the best potion-maker in the class was crashing around his ears. Slughorn had peered hopefully into his cauldron on his first circuit of the dungeon, preparing to exclaim in delight as he usually did, and instead had with-drawn his head hastily, coughing, as the smell of bad eggs overwhelmed him. Hermione's expression could not have been any smugger; she had loathed being out-performed in every Potions class. She was now decanting the mysteriously separated ingredients of her poison into ten different crystal phials. More to avoid watching this irritating sight than any-thing else, Harry bent over the Half-Blood Prince's book and turned a few pages with unnecessary force.

 

And there it was, scrawled right across a long list of antidotes.

 

Just shove a bezoar down their throats.

 

Harry stared at these words for a moment. Hadn't he once, long ago, heard of bezoars? Hadn't Snape mentioned them in their first ever Potions lesson? 'A stone taken from the stomach of a goat, which will protect from most poisons.'

 

It was not an answer to the Golpalott problem, and had Snape still been their teacher, Harry would not have dared do it, but this was a moment for desperate measures. He hastened towards the store cupboard and rummaged within it, pushing aside unicorn horns and tangles of dried herbs until he found, at the very back, a small card box on which had been scribbled the word 'Bezoars'.

 

He opened the box just as Slughorn called, Two minutes left, everyone!' Inside were half a dozen shrivelled brown objects, looking more like dried-up kidneys than real stones. Harry seized one, put the box back in the cupboard and hurried back to his cauldron.

 

'Time's ... UP!' called Slughorn genially. 'Well, let's see how you've done! Blaise ... what have you got for me?'

 

Slowly, Slughorn moved around the room, examining the various antidotes. Nobody had finished the task, although Hermione was trying to cram a few more ingredients into her bottle before Slughorn reached her. Ron had given up com-pletely, and was merely trying to avoid breathing in the putrid fumes issuing from his cauldron. Harry stood there waiting, the bezoar clutched in a slightly sweaty hand.

 

Slughorn reached their table last. He sniffed Ernie's potion and passed on to Ron's with a grimace. He did not linger over Ron's cauldron, but backed away swiftly, retching slightly.

 

'And you, Harry,' he said. 'What have you got to show me?'

 

Harry held out his hand, the bezoar sitting on his palm.

 

Slughorn looked down at it for a full ten seconds. Harry wondered, for a moment, whether he was going to shout at him. Then he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

 

'You've got a nerve, boy!' he boomed, taking the bezoar and holding it up so that the class could see it. 'Oh, you're like your mother ... well, 1 can't fault you ... a bezoar would certainly act as an antidote to all these potions!'

 

Hermione, who was sweaty-faced and had soot on her nose, looked livid. Her half-finished antidote, comprising fifty-two ingredients including a chunk of her own hair,

 

bubbled sluggishly behind Slughorn, who had eyes for nobody but Harry.

 

'And you thought of a bezoar all by yourself, did you, Harry?' she asked through gritted teeth.

 

That's the individual spirit a real potion-maker needs!' said Slughorn happily, before Harry could reply. 'Just like his mother, she had the same intuitive grasp of potion-making, it's undoubtedly from Lily he gets it ... yes, Harry, yes, if you've got a bezoar to hand, of course that would do the trick ... although as they don't work on everything, and are pretty rare, it's still worth knowing how to mix antidotes ...'

 

The only person in the room looking angrier than Hermione was Malfoy, who, Harry was pleased to see, had spilled some-thing that looked like cat sick over himself. Before either of them could express their fury that Harry had come top of the class by not doing any work, however, the bell rang.

 

Time to pack up!' said Slughorn. 'And an extra ten points to Gryffindor for sheer cheek!'

 

Still chuckling, he waddled back to his desk at the front of the dungeon.

 

Harry dawdled behind, taking an inordinate amount of time to do up his bag. Neither Ron nor Hermione wished him luck as they left; both looked rather annoyed. At last Harry and Slughorn were the only two left in the room.

 

'Come on, now, Harry, you'll be late for your next lesson,' said Slughorn affably, snapping the gold clasps shut on his dragonskin briefcase.

 

'Sir,' said Harry, reminding himself irresistibly of Voldemort, '1 wanted to ask you something.'

 

'Ask away, then, my dear boy, ask away ..."

 

'Sir, 1 wondered what you know about ... about Horcruxes?'

 

Slughorn froze. His round face seemed to sink in upon itself. He licked his lips and said hoarsely, 'What did you say?' 'I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see -'

 

'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn.

 

His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow.

 

'Dumbledore's shown you that - that memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?'

 

'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.

 

'Yes, of course,' said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. 'Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything - anything -he repeated the word forcefully '- about Horcruxes.'

 

He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.

 

'Sir,' said Harry desperately, 'I just thought there might be a bit more to the memory -'

 

'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!'

 

He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.

 

Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too.

 

'It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!' said Harry irritably. 'Look, I had to try and soften him up so I could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, will you gel a grip!' he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of the name.

 

Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti-

 

tudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack.

 

When Harry did noi question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch prac- tice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him.

 

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first lime in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar,

 

'I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!" she told him. 'Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions -nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduciion to Magick Mostc Evilc — listen — "of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction" ... 1 mean, why mention it, then?' she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. 'Oh, shut up,' she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag. 'I asked whether you know anything about Horcruxes, sir. You see -

 

'Dumbledore put you up to this,' whispered Slughorn,

 

His voice had changed completely. It was not genial any more, but shocked, terrified. He fumbled in his breast pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, mopping his sweating brow.

 

'Dumbledore's shown you that — that memory,' said Slughorn. 'Well? Hasn't he?'

 

'Yes,' said Harry, deciding on the spot that it was best not to lie.

 

'Yes, of course,' said Slughorn quietly, still dabbing at his white face. 'Of course ... well, if you've seen that memory, Harry, you'll know that I don't know anything - anything -he repeated the word forcefully '- about Horcruxes.'

 

He seized his dragonskin briefcase, stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket and marched to the dungeon door.

 

'Sir,' said Harry desperately, '1 just thought there might be a

 

'Did you?' said Slughorn. Then you were wrong, weren't you? WRONG!'

 

He bellowed the last word and, before Harry could say another word, slammed the dungeon door behind him.

 

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Neither Ron nor Hermione was at all sympathetic when Harry told them of this disastrous interview. Hermione was still seething at the way Harry had triumphed without doing the work properly. Ron was resentful that Harry hadn't slipped him a bezoar, too.

 

'It would've just looked stupid if we'd both done it!' said Harry irritably. 'Look, 1 had to try and soften him up so 1 could ask him about Voldemort, didn't I? Oh, will you get a grip!' he added in exasperation, as Ron winced at the sound of

 

Infuriated by his failure and by Ron and Hermione's atti-

 

tudes, Harry brooded for the next few days over what to do next about Slughorn. He decided that, for the time being, he would let Slughorn think that he had forgotten all about Horcruxes; it was surely best to lull him into a false sense of security before returning to the attack.

 

When Harry did not question Slughorn again, the Potions master reverted to his usual affectionate treatment of him, and appeared to have put the matter from his mind. Harry awaited an invitation to one of his little evening parties, determined to accept this time, even if he had to reschedule Quidditch prac-tice. Unfortunately, however, no such invitation arrived. Harry checked with Hermione and Ginny: neither of them had received an invitation and nor, as far as they knew, had anybody else. Harry could not help wondering whether this meant that Slughorn was not quite as forgetful as he appeared, simply determined to give Harry no additional opportunities to question him.

 

Meanwhile, the Hogwarts library had failed Hermione for the first time in living memory. She was so shocked, she even forgot that she was annoyed at Harry for his trick with the bezoar.

 

'I haven't found one single explanation of what Horcruxes do!' she told him. 'Not a single one! I've been right through the restricted section and even in the most horrible books, where they tell you how to brew the most gruesome potions -nothing! All I could find was this, in the introduction to Magick Moste Evile - listen - "of the Horcrux, wickedest of magical inventions, we shall not speak nor give direction" ... I mean, why mention it, then?' she said impatiently, slamming the old book shut; it let out a ghostly wail. 'Oh, shut up,' she snapped, stuffing it back into her bag.

 

The snow melted around the school as February arrived, to be replaced by cold, dreary wetness. Purplish-grey clouds hung low over the castle and a constant fall of chilly rain made the lawns slippery and muddy. The upshot of this was that the sixth-years' first Apparition lesson, which was sched-uled for a Saturday morning so that no normal lessons would be missed, took place in the Great Hall instead of in the grounds.

 

When Harry and Hermione arrived in the Hall (Ron had come down with Lavender) they found that the tables had disappeared. Rain lashed against the high windows and the enchanted ceiling swirled darkly above them as they assembled in front of Professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick and Sprout - the Heads of House - and a small wizard whom Harry took to be the Apparition Instructor from the Ministry. He was oddly colourless, with transparent eyelashes, wispy hair and an insubstantial air, as though a single gust of wind might blow him away. Harry wondered whether constant dis-appearances and reappearances had somehow diminished his substance, or whether this frail build was ideal for anyone wishing to vanish.

 

'Good morning,' said the Ministry wizard, when all the stu-dents had arrived and the Heads of House had called for quiet. 'My name is Wilkie Twycross and I shall be your Ministry-Apparition Instructor for the next twelve weeks. 1 hope to be able to prepare you for your Apparition test in this time -'

 

'Malfoy, be quiet and pay attention!' barked Professor McGonagall.

 

Everybody looked round. Malfoy had flushed a dull pink; he looked furious as he stepped away from Crabbe, with whom he appeared to have been having a whispered argu-ment. Harry glanced quickly at Snape, who also looked annoyed, though Harry strongly suspected that this was less because of Malfoy's rudeness than the fact that McGonagall had reprimanded one of his house.

 

'- by which time, many of you may be ready to take your test,' Twycross continued, as though there had been no interruption.

 

'As you may know, it is usually impossible to Apparate or Disapparate within Hogwarts. The Headmaster has lifted this enchantment, purely within the Great Hall, for one hour, so as to enable you to practise. May I emphasise that you will not be able to Apparate outside the walls of this Hall, and that you would be unwise to try.

 

'I would like each of you to place yourselves now so that you have a clear five feet of space in front of you.'

 

There was a great scrambiing and jostling as people separ-ated, banged into each other, and ordered others out of their space. The Heads of House moved among the students, marshalling them into position and breaking up arguments.

 

'Harry, where are you going? 1 demanded Hermione.

 

But Harry did not answer; he was moving quickly through the crowd, past the place where Professor Flitwick was making squeaky attempts to position a few Ravenclaws, all of whom wanted to be near the front, past Professor Sprout, who was chivvying the Hufflepuffs into line, until, by dodging around Ernie Macmillan, he managed to position himself right at the back of the crowd, directly behind Malfoy, who was taking advantage of the general upheaval to continue his argument with Crabbe, standing five feet away and looking mutinous.

 

'I don't know how much longer, all right?' Malfoy shot at him, oblivious to Harry standing right behind him. 'It's taking longer than I thought it would.'

 

Crabbe opened his mouth, but Malfoy appeared to second-guess what he was going to say.

 

'Look, it's none of your business what I'm doing, Crabbe, you and Goyle just do as you're told and keep a lookout!'

 

'! tell my friends what I'm up to, if I want them to keep a lookout for me," Harry said, just loud enough for Malfoy to hear him.

 

Malfoy spun round on the spot, his hand flying to his wand, but at thai precise moment the four Heads of House shouted, 'Quiet!' and silence fell again. Malfoy turned slowly to face the front.

 

Thank you,' said Twycross. :Now then ...'

 

He waved his wand. Old-fashioned wooden hoops instantly appeared on the floor in from of every student.

 

The important things to remember when Apparating are the three Ds!' said Twycross. 'Destination, Determination, Deliberation!

 

'Step one: fix your mind firmly upon the desired destin-ation,' said Twycross. 'In this case, the interior of your hoop. Kindly concentrate upon that destination now.'

 

Everybody looked around furtively, to check that everyone else was staring into their hoop, then hastily did as they were told. Harry gazed at the circular patch of dusty floor enclosed by his hoop and tried hard to think of nothing else. This proved impossible, as he couldn't stop puzzling over what Malfoy was doing that needed lookouts.

 

"Step two,' said Twycross, 'focus your determination to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!'

 

Harry glanced around surreptitiously. A little way to his left, Ernie Macmillan was contemplating his hoop so hard that his face had turned pink; it looked as though he was straining to lay a Quaffle-sized egg. Harry bit back a laugh and hastily returned his gaze to his own hoop.

 

'Step three,' called Twycross, 'and only when 1 give the com-mand ... lum on the spot, feeiing your way into nothingness, moving with deliberation 1. On my command, now ... one- 1

 

Harry glanced around again; lots of people were looking positively alarmed at being asked to Apparate so quickly.

 

Harry tried to fix his thoughts on his hoop again; he had already forgotten what the three Ds stood for.

 

: - THREE!'

 

Harry spun on the spot, lost his balance and nearly fell over. He was not the only one. The whole Hall was suddenly full of staggering people; Neville was flat on his back; Ernie Macmillan, on the other hand, had done a kind of pirouet-ting leap into his hoop and looked momentarily thrilled, until he caught sight of Dean Thomas roaring with laughter at him.

 

'Never mind, never mind,' said Twycross dryly, who did not seem to have expected anything better. 'Adjust your hoops, please, and back to your original positions ...'

 

The second atlem.pt was no better than the first. The third was just as bad. Not until the fourth did anything exciting happen. There was a horrible screech of pain and everybody looked around, terrified, to see Susan Bones of Hufflepuff wobbling in her hoop with her left leg still standing five feet away where she had started.

 

The Heads of House converged on her; there was a great bang and a puff of purple smoke, which cleared to reveal Susan sobbing, reunited with her leg but looking horrified.

 

'Sph'nching, or the separation of random body parts,' said Wilkie Twycross dispassionately, 'occurs when the mind is insufficiently determined. You must concentrate continually upon your destination, and move, without hasie, but with deliberation ... thus.'

 

Twycross stepped forwards, turned gracefully on the spot with his arms outstretched and vanished in a swirl of robes, reappearing at the back of the Hall. 'Remember the three Ds,' he said, 'and try again ... one -two - three -'

 

But an hour later, Susan's Splinching was still ihe most interesting thing that had happened. Twycross did not seem discouraged. Fastening his cloak at his neck, he merely said, 'Until next Saturday, everybody, and do not forget: Destin-ation. Determination. Deliberation.'

 

With that, he waved his wand, Vanishing the hoops, and walked out of the Hall accompanied by Professor McGonagall. Talk broke out at once as people began moving towards the Entrance Hall.

 

'How did you do?' asked Ron, hurrying towards Harry. '1 think 1 felt something the last time I tried - a kind of tingling in my feet.'

 

'1 expect your trainers are too small, Won-Won,' said a voice behind them, and Hermione stalked past, smirking.

 

'1 didn't feel anything,' said Harry, ignoring this inter-ruption. "But 1 don't care about that now-'

 

'What d'you mean, you don't care ... don't you want to leam to Apparate?' said Ron incredulously.

 

'I'm not fussed, really. I prefer flying,' said Harry, glancing over his shoulder to see where Malfoy was, and speeding up as they came into the Entrance Hall. 'Look, hurry up, will you, there's something I want to do ...'

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Perplexed, Ron followed Harry back to Gryffindor Tower at a run. They were temporarily detained by Peeves, who had jammed a door on the fourth floor shut and was refusing to let anyone pass until they set fire to their own pants, but Harry and Ron simply turned back and took one of their trusted short cuts. Within five minutes, they were climbing through the portrait hole.

 

'Are you going to tell me what we're doing, then?' asked Ron, panting slightly.

 

'Up here,' said Harry, and he crossed the common room and led the way through the door to the boys' staircase.

 

Their dormitory was, as Ham' had hoped, empty. He flung open his trunk and began to rummage in it, while Ron watched impatiently.

 

'Harry ...'

 

'Malfoy's using Crabbe and Goyle as lookouts. He was argu-ing with Crabbe just now. 1 want to know ... aha.'

 

He had found it, a folded square of apparently blank parchment, which he now smoothed out and tapped with [he tip of his wand.

 

'I solemn!)' swear that I am up to no good ... or Malfoy is,

 

At once, the Marauder's Map appeared on the parchment's surface. Here was a detailed plan of every one of the castle's floors and, moving around it, the tiny, labelled black dots that signified each of the castle's occupants.

 

'Help me find Malfoy,' said Harry urgently.

 

He laid the map upon his bed and he and Ron leaned over it, searching.

 

'There!' said Ron, after a minute or so. 'He's in the Slytherin common room, look ... with Parkinson and Zabini and Crabbe and Goyle ..."

 

Harry looked down at the map, disappointed, but rallied almost at once.

 

'Well, I'm keeping an eye on him from now on,' he said firmly. 'And the moment 1 see him lurking somewhere with Crabbe and Goyle keeping watch outside, it'll be on with the old Invisibility Cloak and off to find out what he's-'

 

He broke off as Neville entered the dormitory, bringing with him a strong smell of singed material, and began rum-maging in his trunk for a fresh pair of pants.

 

Despite his determination 10 catch Malfoy out, Harry had no luck at all over the next couple of weeks. Although he consulted the map as often as he could, sometimes making unnecessary visits to the bathroom between lessons to search it, he did not once see Malfoy anywhere suspicious. Admit-tedly, he spotted Crabbe and Goyle moving around the castle on their own more often than usual, sometimes remaining stationary in deserted corridors, but at these times Malfoy was not only nowhere near them, but impossible to locate on the map at all. This was most mysterious. Harry toyed with the possibility that Malfoy was actually leaving the school grounds, but could not see how he could be doing it, given the very high leve! of security now operating within the castle. He could only suppose ihat he was missing Malfoy amongst the hundreds of tiny black dots upon the map. As for the fact that Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared to be going their dif-ferent ways when they were usually inseparable, these things happened as people got older - Ron and Hermione, Harry reflected sadly, were living proof.

 

February moved towards March with no change in the weather except that it became windy as well as wet. To general indignation, a sign went up on all common-room noticeboards that the next trip into Hogsmeade had been cancelled. Ron was furious.

 

'It was on my birthday!' he said, 'i was looking forward to that!'

 

'Not a big surprise, though, is it?' said Harry. 'Not after what happened to Katie.'

 

She had still not returned from Si Mungo's. What was more, further disappearances had been reported in the Daily Prophet, including several relatives of students at Hogwarts.

 

'But now all I've got to look forward to is stupid Appar-ition!' said Ron grumpily. 'Big birthday treat ...'

 

Three lessons on, Apparition was proving as difficult as

 

ever, though a few more people had managed to Splinch themselves. Frustration was running high and there was a certain amount of ill-feeling towards Wilkie Twycross and his three Ds, which had inspired a number of nicknames for him, the politest of which were Dog-breath and Dung-head.

 

'Happy birthday, Ron,' said Harry, when they were woken on the first of March by Seamus and Dean leaving noisily for breakfast. 'Have a present.'

 

He threw the package across on to Ron's bed, where it joined a small pile of them that must, Harry assumed, have been delivered by house-elves in the night.

 

'Cheers,' said Ron drowsily, and as he ripped off the paper Harry got out of bed, opened his own crunk and began rum-maging in it for the Marauder's Map, which he hid after every use. He turfed out half the contents of his trunk before he found it hiding beneath the rolled-up socks in which he was still keeping his bottle of lucky potion, Felix Felicis.

 

'Right,' he murmured, taking it back to bed with him, tap-ping it quietly and murmuring, 'I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,' so that Neville, who was passing the foot of his bed at the time, would not hear.

 

'Nice one, Harry!' said Ron enthusiastically, waving the new pair of Quidditch Keeper's gloves Harry had given him.

 

'No problem,' said Harry absent-mindedly, as he searched the Slytherin dormitory closely for Malfoy. 'Hey ... I don't think he's in his bed ...'

 

Ron did not answer; he was too busy unwrapping presents, every now and then letting out an exclamation of pleasure.

 

'Seriously good haul this year!' he announced, holding up a heavy gold watch with odd symbols around the edge and tiny moving stars instead of hands. 'See what Mum and Dad got me? Blimey, I think I'll come of age next year too ...

 

'Cool,' muttered Harry, sparing the watch a glance before peering more closely at the map. Where was Malfoy? He did not seem to be at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, eating breakfast ... he was nowhere near Snape, who was sitting in his study ... he wasn't in any of the bathrooms or in the hospital wing ...

 

'Want one? 1 said Ron thickly, holding out a box of Chocolate Cauldrons.

 

'No thanks,' said Harry, looking up. 'Malfoy's gone again!'

 

'Can't have done,' said Ron, stuffing a second Cauldron into his mouth as he slid out of bed to get dressed. 'Come on. if you don't hurry up you'll have to Apparate on an empty-stomach ... might make it easier, 1 suppose ..."

 

Ron looked thoughtfully ai the box of Chocolate Cauldrons, then shrugged and helped himself to a third.

 

Harry tapped the map with his wand, muttered, 'Mischief managed,' though it hadn't been, and got dressed, thinking hard. There had to be an explanation for Malfoy's periodic disappearances, but he simply could not think what it could be. The best way of finding out would be to tail him, bur even with the Invisibility Cloak this was an impractical idea; he had lessons, Quidditch practice, homework and Apparition; he could not follow Malfoy around school all day wilhout his absence being remarked upon,

 

'Ready?' he said to Ron.

 

He was halfway to the dormitory door when he realised that Ron had not moved, but was leaning on his bedpost, staring out of the rain-washed window with a strangely un-focused look on his face.

 

'Ron? Breakfast.'

 

'I'm not hungry,'

 

Harry stared ai him.

 

'I thought you just said -?'

 

-Well, all right, I'll come down with you,' sighed Ron, 'but I don't want to eat.'

 

Harry scrutinised him suspiciously.

 

'You've just eaten half a box of Chocolate Cauldrons, haven't you?'

 

'It's not that,' Ron sighed again. 'You ... you wouldn't understand.'

 

'Fair enough,' said Harry, albeit puzzled, as he turned to open the door.

 

'Harry!' said Ron suddenly.

 

'What?'

 

'Harry, I can't stand it!'

 

'You can't stand what?' asked Harry, now starling to feel definitely alarmed. Ron was rather pale and looked as though he was about to be sick.

 

'I can't stop thinking about her!' said Ron hoarsely.

 

Harry gaped at him. He had not expected this and was not sure he wanted to hear it. Friends they might be, but if Ron started calling Lavender 'Lav-Lav', he would have to pui his foot down.

 

'Why does that stop you having breakfast?' Harry asked, trying to inject a note of common sense into the proceedings.

 

'I don't think she knows I exist,' said Ron with a desperate gesture.

 

'She definitely knows you exist,' said Harry, bewildered. 'She keeps snogging you, doesn't she?'

 

Ron blinked.

 

'Who are you talking about?'

 

Who are you talking about?' said Harry, with an increasing sense that all reason had dropped out of the conversation.

 

'Romilda Vane,' said Ron softly, and his whole face seemed to illuminate as he said it, as though hit by a ray of purest sunlight. They stared at each other for almost a whole minute, before Harry said, 'This is a joke, right? You're joking.'

 

T think ... Harry, 1 ihink I love her,' said Ron in a strangled voice.

 

'OK,' said Harry, walking up to Ron 10 get a better look at the glazed eyes and the pallid complexion, 'OK ... say that again with a straight face.'

 

'I love her,' repeated Ron breathlessly. 'Have you seen her hair, it's all black and shiny and silky ... and her eyes? Her big dark eyes? And her -'

 

'This is really funny and everything,' said Harry impatiently, 'but joke's over, all right? Drop it.'

 

He turned to leave; he had got two steps towards the door when a crashing blow hit him on the right ear. Staggering, he looked round. Ron's fist was drawn right back, his face was contorted with rage; he was about to strike again.

 

Harry reacted instinctively; his wand was out of his pocket and the incantation sprang to mind without conscious thought: Le\icorpus!

 

Ron yelled as his heel was wrenched upwards once more; he dangled helplessly, upside-down, his robes hanging off him.

 

'What was that for?' Harry bellowed.

 

'You insulted her, Harry! You said it was a joke!' shouted Ron, who was slowly turning purple in the face as all the blood rushed to his head.

 

'This is insane!' said Harry. 'What's got into -?'

 

And then he saw the box lying open on Ron's bed and the truth hit him with the force of a stampeding troll.

 

'Where did you get those Chocolate Cauldrons?'

 

'They were a birthday present!' shouted Ron, revolving slowly in midair as he struggled to get free. '1 offered you one, didn't 1?'

 

'You just picked them up off the floor, didn't you?'

 

'They'd fallen off my bed, all right? Let me go!'

 

'They didn't fall off your bed, you prat, don't you under-stand? They were mine, 1 chucked them out of my trunk when 1 was looking for the map. They're the Chocolate Cauldrons Romilda gave me before Christmas and they're all spiked with love potion!'

 

But only one word of this seemed to have registered with Ron.

 

'Romilda?' he repeated. 'Did you say Romilda? Harry - do you know her? Can you introduce me?'

 

Harry stared at the dangling Ron, whose face now looked tremendously hopeful, and fought a strong desire to laugh. A part of him - the part closest to his throbbing right ear - was quite keen on the idea of letting Ron down and watching him run amok until the effects of the potion wore off ... but on the other hand, they were supposed to be friends, Ron had not been himself when he had attacked, and Harry- thought that he would deserve another punching if he permitted Ron to declare undying love for Romilda Vane.

 

'Yeah, I'll introduce you,' said Harry, thinking fast. 'I'm going to let you down now, OK?'

 

He sent Ron crashing back to the floor (his ear did hurt quite a lot), but Ron simply bounded to his feet again, grinning.

 

'She'll be in Slughorn's office, 1 said Harry confidently, leading the way to the door.

 

'Why will she be in there?' asked Ron anxiously, hurrying to keep up.

 

'Oh, she has extra Potions lessons with him,' said Harry, inventing wildly.

 

'Maybe 1 could ask if 1 can have them with her?' said Ron eagerly.

 

'Great idea,' said Harry. Lavender was waiting beside the portrait hole, a complication Harry had not foreseen.

 

'You're lace, Won-Won!' she pouted. 'I've got you a birth-day-'

 

'Leave me alone,' said Ron impatiently, 'Harry's going to introduce me to Romilda Vane.'

 

And without another word to her, he pushed his way oui of the portrait hole. Harry tried to make an apologetic face to Lavender, but it might have turned out simply amused, because she looked more offended than ever as the Fat Lady swung shut behind them. 

 

Harry had been slightly worried that Slughorn might be at breakfast, but he answered his office door at the first knock, wearing a green velvet dressing-gown and matching nightcap and looking rather bleary-eyed.

 

'Harry,' he mumbled. 'This is very early for a call ... I generally sleep late on a Saturday ..."

 

'Professor, I'm really sorry to disturb you,' said Harry as quietly as possible, while Ron stood on tiptoe, attempting to see past Slughorn into his room, 'but my friend Ron's swallowed a love potion by mistake. You couldn't make him an antidote, could you? I'd take him to Madam Pomfrey, but we're not supposed to have anything from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and, you know ... awkward questions ...'

 

Td have thought you could have whipped him up a remedy, Harry, an expert potioneer like you?' asked Slughorn. 'Er,' said Harry, somewhat distracted by the fact that Ron was now elbowing him in the ribs in an attempt to force his way into the room, 'well, I've never mixed an antidote for a love potion, sir, and by the time I get it right Ron might've done something serious -'

 

Helpfully, Ron chose this moment to moan, 'I can't see her. Harry - is he hiding her?'

 

'Was this potion within date?' asked Slughorn, now eyeing Ron with professional interest. 'They can strengthen, you know, the longer they're kept.'

 

That would explain a lot,' panted Harry, now positively wrestling with Ron to keep him from knocking Slughorn over. 'It's his birthday, Professor,' he added imploringly.

 

'Oh, all right, come in, then, come in,' said Slughorn, relenting. 'I've got the necessary here in my bag, it's not a difficult antidote ...'

 

Ron burst through the door into Slughorn's overheated, crowded study, tripped over a tasselled footstool, regained his balance by seizing Harry around the neck and muttered, 'She didn't see that, did she?'

 

'She's not here yet,' said Harry, watching Slughorn opening his potion kit and adding a few pinches of this and that to a small crystal bottle.

 

That's good,' said Ron fervently. 'How do I look?'

 

'Very handsome,' said Slughorn smoothly, handing Ron a glass of clear liquid. 'Now drink that up, it's a tonic for the nerves, keep you calm when she arrives, you know,'

 

'Brilliant,' said Ron eagerly, and he gulped the antidote down noisily.

 

Harry and Slughorn watched him. For a moment, Ron beamed at them. Then, very slowly, his grin sagged and van-ished, to be replaced by an expression of utmost horror.

 

'Back to normal, then?' said Harry, grinning. Slughorn chuckled. Thanks a lot, Professor.'

 

'Don't mention it, m'boy, don't mention it,' said Slughorn, as Ron collapsed into a nearby armchair, looking devastated. 'Pick-me-up, that's what he needs,' Slughorn continued, now-bustling over to a table loaded with drinks. 'I've got Butter-beer, I've got wine, I've got one last bottle of this oak-matured mead ... hmm ... meant to give that to Dumbledore for

 

Christmas ... ah well ...' he shrugged '... he can't miss what he's never had! Why don't we open it now and celebrate Mr Weasley's birthday? Nothing like a fine spirit to chase away the pangs of disappointed love ...'

 

He chortled again and Harry joined in. This was the firsi time he had found himself almost alone with Slughorn since his disastrous first attempt to extract the true memory from him. Perhaps, if he could just keep Slughorn in a good mood ... perhaps if they got through enough of the oak-matured mead ...

 

There you are, then,' said Slughorn, handing Harry and Ron a glass of mead each, before raising his own. 'Well, a very happy birthday, Ralph -'

 

'- Ron -' whispered Harry.

 

But Ron, who did not appear to be listening to the toast, had already thrown the mead into his mouth and swallowed it.

 

There was one second, hardly more than a heartbeat, in which Harry knew there was something terribly wrong and Slughorn, it seemed, did not.

 

'- and may you have many more -

 

'Ron!'

 

Ron had dropped his glass; he half-rose from his chair and then crumpled, his extremities jerking uncontrollably. Foam was dribbling from his mouth and his eyes were bulging from their sockets.

 

'Professor!' Harry bellowed. 'Do something]'

 

But Slughorn seemed paralysed by shock. Ron twitched and choked: his skin was turning blue.

 

'What - but -' spluttered Slughorn.

 

Harry leapt over a low table and sprinted towards Slughorn's open potion kit, pulling out jars and pouches, while the terrible sound of Ron's gargling breath filled the room. Then

 

he found it - the shrivelled kidney-like stone Slughorn had taken from him in Potions.

 

He hurtled back to Ron's side, wrenched open his jaw and thrust the bezoar into his mouth. Ron gave a great shudder, a rattling gasp and his body became limp and still.

Chapter 19: Elf Tails

 

So, all in all, not one of Ron's better birthdays?" said Fred.

 

It was evening; the hospital wing was quiet, the windows curtained, the lamps lit. Ron's was the only occupied bed. Harry, Hermione, and Ginny were sitting around him; they had spent all day waiting outside the double doors, trying to see inside whenever somebody went in or out. Madam Pomfrey had only let them enter at eight o'clock. Fred and George had arrived at ten past.

 

"This isn't how we imagined handing over our present," said George grimly, putting down a large wrapped gift on Ron's bedside cabinet and sitting beside Ginny.

 

"Yeah, when we pictured the scene, he was conscious," said Fred.

 

"There we were in Hogsmeade, waiting to surprise him —" said George.

 

"You were in Hogsmeade?" asked Ginny, looking up.

 

"We were thinking of buying Zonko's," said Fred gloomily. "A Hogsmeade branch, you know, but a fat lot of good it'll do us if you lot aren't allowed out at weekends to buy our stuff anymon ... But never mind that now."

 

He drew up a chair beside Harry and looked at Ron's pale face.

 

"How exactly did it happen, Harry?"

 

Harry retold the story he had already recounted, it felt like a hundred times to Dumbledore, to McGonagall, to Madam Pomfrey, to Hermione, and to Ginny.

 

". . . and then I got the bezoar down his throat and his breathing eased up a bit, Slughorn ran for help, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey turned up, and they brought Ron up here. They reckon he'll be all right. Madam Pomfrey says he'll have to stay here a week or so ... keep taking essence of rue . . ."

 

"Blimey, it was lucky you thought of a bezoar," said George in a low voice.

 

"Lucky there was one in the room," said Harry, who kept turning cold at the thought of what would have happened if he had not been able to lay hands on the little stone.

 

Hermione gave an almost inaudible sniff. She had been exceptionally quiet all day. Having hurtled, white-faced, up to Harry outside the hospital wing and demanded to know what had happened., she had taken almost no part in Harry and Ginny's obsessive discussion about how Ron had been poisoned, but merely stood beside them, clench-jawed and frightened-looking, until ai last they had been allowed in to see him.

 

"Do Mum and Dad know?" Fred asked Ginny. "They've already seen him, they arrived an hour ago — they're in Dumbledore's office now, but they'll be back soon. . . ."

 

There was a pause while they all watched Ron mumble a little in his sleep.

 

"So the poison was in the drink?" said Fred quietly.

 

"Yes," said Harry at once; he could think of nothing else and was glad for the opportunity to start discussing it again. "Slughorn poured it out —"

 

"Would he have been able to slip something into Ron's glass without you seeing?"

 

"Probably," said Harry, "but why would Slughorn want to poison Ron?"

 

"No idea," said Fred, frowning. "You don't think he could have mixed up the glasses by mistake? Meaning to get you?"

 

"Why would Slughorn want to poison Harry?" asked Ginny. "I dunno," said Fred, "but there must be loads of people who'd like to poison Harry, mustn't there? 'The Chosen One' and all that?" "So you think Slughorn's a Death Eater?" said Ginny. :,

 

"Anything's possible," said Fred darkly. "He could be under the Imperius Curse," said George. "Or he could be innocent," said Ginny. "The poison could have been in the bottle, in which case it was probably meant for Slughorn himself."

 

"Who'd want to kill Slughorn?"

 

"Dumbledore reckons Voldemort wanted Slughorn on his side," said Harry. "Slughorn was in hiding for a year before he came to Hogwarts. And . . ." He thought of the memory Dumbledore had not yet been able to extract from Slughorn. "And maybe Voldemort wants him out of the way, maybe he thinks he could be valuable to Dumbledore."

 

"But you said Slughorn had been planning to give th.u Untie to Dumbledore for Christmas," Ginny reminded him. "So the poisoner could just as easily have been after Dumbledore."

 

"Then the poisoner didn't know Slughorn very well," said Hermione, speaking for the first time in hours and sounding as though she had a bad head cold. "Anyone who knew Slughorn would have I known there was a good chance he'd keep something that tasty for himself." I

 

"Er-my-nee," croaked Ron unexpectedly from between them

 

They all fell silent, watching him anxiously, but after muttering incomprehensibly for a moment he merely started snoring.

 

The dormitory doors flew open, making them all jump: Hagrid came striding toward them, his hair rain-flecked, his bearskin coat flapping behind him, a crossbow in his hand, leaving a trail of muddy dolphin-sized footprints all over the floor.

 

"Bin in the forest all day!" he panted. "Aragog's worse, I bin readin' to him — didn' get up ter dinner till jus' now an' then Professor Sprout told me abou' Ron! How is he?"

 

"Not bad," said Harry. "They say he'll be okay."

 

"No more than six visitors at a time!" said Madam Pomfrey, hurrying out of her office.

 

"Hagrid makes six," George pointed out.

 

"Oh . . . yes. .." said Madam Pomfrey, who seemed to have been counting Hagrid as several people due to his vastness. To cover her confusion, she hurried off to clear up his muddy foot prints with her wand.

 

"I don' believe this," said Hagrid hoarsely, shaking his great shaggy head as he stared down at Ron. "Jus' don' believe it... Look at him lyin' there. . . . Who'd want ter hurt him, eh?"

 

"That's just what we were discussing," said Harry. "We don't know."

 

"Someone couldn’ have a grudge against the Gryfinndor Quidditch team, could they?" said Hagrid anxiously. "Firs' Katie, now Ron . . ."

 

"I cant see anyone trying to bump off a Quidditch team," said

 

I m urge.

 

Wood might've done the Slytherins if he could've got away with it," said Fred fairly.

 

Well, I don't think it's Quidditch, but I think there's a connection between the attacks," said Hermione quietly

 

"How d'you work that out?" asked Fred.

 

"Well, for one thing, they both ought to have been fatal and weren't, although that was pure luck. And for another, neither the poison nor the necklace seems to have reached the person who was (supposed to be killed. Of course," she added broodingly, "that makes the person behind this even more dangerous in a way, because they don't seem to care how many people they finish off In lore they actually reach their victim."

 

Before anybody could respond to this ominous pronouncement, tin- dormitory doors opened again and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley hurried up the ward. They had done no more than satisfy themselves that Ron would make a full recovery on their last visit to the ward; now Mrs. Weasley seized hold of Harry and hugged him very tighty. "Dumbledore's told us how you saved him with the bezoar," she sobbed. "Oh, Harry, what can we say? You saved Ginny . . . you saved Arthur , . . now you've saved Ron

 

"Don't be ... I didn't. . ." muttered Harry awkwardly. "Half our family does seem to owe you their lives, now I stop and think about it," Mr. Weasley said in a constricted voice. "Well, all I can say is that it was a lucky clay for the Weasleys when Ron decided to sit in your compartment on the Hogwarts Expirv., Harry."

 

Harry could not think of any reply to this and was almost gl.i“l when Madam Pomfrey reminded them that there were only supposed to be six visitors around Ron's bed; he and Hermione rose .h once to leave and Hagrid decided to go with them, leaving Ron with his family.

 

"It's terrible," growled Hagrid into his beard, as the three ol them walked back along the corridor to the marble staircase. "Ml this new security, an kids are still gettin' hurt. . . . Dumbledoiv's worried sick. . . . He don say much, but I can tell. . . ."

 

"Hasn't he got any ideas, Hagrid?" asked Hermione desperately.

 

"I spect he's got hundreds of ideas, brain like his," said Hagrid. "But he doesn' know who sent that necklace nor put poison in that wine, or they'dve bin caught, wouldn they? Wha' worries me," said Hagrid, lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder (Harry, for good measure, checked the ceiling for Peeves), "is how long Hogwarts can stay open if kids are bein' attacked. Chamber o' Secrets all over again, isn' it? There'll be panic, more parents takin their kids outta school, an nex' thing yeh know the board o' governors ..."

 

Hagrid stopped talking as the ghost of a long-haired woman drifted serenely past, then resumed in a hoarse whisper, ". . . the board o' governors'll be talkin about shuttin' us up fer good."

 

"Surely not?" said Hermione, looking worried.

 

"Gotta see it from their point o' view," said Hagrid heavily. "I mean, it's always bin a bit of a risk sendin a kid ter Hogwarts, hasn’ it? Yer expect accidents, don' yeh, with hundreds of underage wizards all locked up tergether, but attempted murder, tha's tliff'rent. 'S'no wonder Dumbledore's angry with Sn —"

 

Hagrid stopped in his tracks, a familiar, guilty expression on what was visible of his face above his tangled black beard.

 

"What?" said Harry quickly. "Dumbledore's angry with Snape?"

 

"I never said tha’," said Hagrid, though his look of panic could not have been a bigger giveaway. "Look at the time, it's gettin' on fer midnight, I need ter —"

 

"Hagrid, why is Dumbledore angry with Snape?" Harry asked loudly.

 

"Shhhh!" said Hagrid, looking both nervous and angry. "Don’ shout stuff like that, Harry, d'yeh wan’ me ter lose me job? Mind, I don' suppose yeh'd care, would yeh, not now yeh've given up Care of Mag—"

 

"Don't try and make me feel guilty, it wont work!" said Harry forcefully. "What's Snape done?"

 

"I dunno, Harry, I shouldn'ta heard it at all! I — well, I was comin’ outta the forest the other evenin’ an' I overheard 'em talking— well, arguin’. Didn't like ter draw attention to meself, so I sorta skulked an tried not ter listen, but it was a — well, a heated discussion an' it wasn’ easy ter block it out."

 

"Well?" Harry urged him, as Hagrid shuffled his enormous feet uneasily.

 

"Well — I jus' heard Snape sayin’ Dumbledore took too much fer granted an maybe he — Snape — didn’ wan’ ter do it any more —“

 

"Do what?"

 

"I dunno, Harry, it sounded like Snape was feelin’ a bit overworked, tha's all — anyway, Dumbledore told him flat out he'd agreed ter do it an' that was all there was to it. Pretty firm with him. An' then he said summat abou’ Snape makin' investigations in his House, in Slytherin. Well, there's nothin' strange abou' that!" Hagrid added hastily, as Harry and Hermione exchanged looks full of meaning. "All the Heads o' Houses were asked ter look inter that necklace business —"

 

"Yeah, but Dumbledore's not having rows with the rest of them, is he?" said Harry.

 

"Look," Hagrid twisted his crossbow uncomfortably in his hands; there was a loud splintering sound and it snapped in two. "I know what yeh're like abou' Snape, Harry, an' I don' want yeh ter go readin' more inter this than there is."

 

"Look out," said Hermione tersely.

 

They turned just in time to see the shadow of Argus Filch looming over the wall behind them before the man himself turned the corner, hunchbacked, his jowls aquiver.

 

"Oho!" he wheezed. "Out of bed so late, this'll mean detention!"

 

"No it won', Filch," said Hagrid shortly. "They're with me, aren’ they?"

 

"And what difference does that make?" asked Filch obnoxiously.

 

"I'm a ruddy teacher, aren' I, yeh sneakin' Squib!" said Hagrid, firing up at once.

 

There was a nasty hissing noise as Filch swelled with fury; Mrs. Norris had arrived, unseen, and was twisting herself sinuously around Filch's skinny ankles.

 

"Get goin," said Hagrid out of the corner of his mouth.

 

Harry did not need telling twice; he and Hermione both hurried off; Hagrid's and Filch's raised voices echoed behind them as they ran. They passed Peeves near the turning into Gryffindor Tower, but he was streaking happily toward the source of the yelling, cackling and calling,

 

 

 

When there's strife and when there's trouble

 

Call on Peevsie, he'll make double!

 

 

 

The Fat Lady was snoozing and not pleased to be woken, but swung forward grumpily to allow them to clamber into the mercifully peaceful and empty common room. It did not seem that people knew about Ron yet; Harry was very relieved: He had been interrogated enough that day. Hermione bade him good night and set off for the girls' dormitory. Harry, however, remained behind, taking a seat beside the fire and looking down into the dying embers.

 

So Dumbledore had argued with Snape. In spite of all he had told Harry, in spite of his insistence that he trusted Snape completely, he had lost his temper with him. . . . He did not think that Snape had tried hard enough to investigate the Slytherins ... or, perhaps, to investigate a single Slytherin: Malfoy?

 

Was it because Dumbledore did not want Harry to do anything foolish, to take matters into his own hands, that he had pretended there was nothing in Harry's suspicions? That seemed likely. It , might even be that Dumbledore did not want anything to distract Harry from their lessons, or from procuring that memory from Slughorn. Perhaps Dumbledore did not think it right to confide suspicions about his staff to sixteen-year-olds. ...

 

"There you are, Potter!"

 

Harry jumped to his feet in shock, his wand at the ready. He had been quite convinced that the common room was empty; he had not been at all prepared for a hulking figure to rise suddenly out of a distant chair. A closer look showed him that it was Cormac McLaggen.

 

"I've been waiting for you to come back," said McLaggen, disregarding Harry’s drawn wand. "Must’ve fallen asleep. Look, I saw them taking Weasley up to the hospital wing earlier. Didn't look like he'll be fit for next week's match."

 

It took Harry a few moments to realize what McLaggen was talking about.

 

"Oh . . . right. . . Quidditch," he said, putting his wand back into the belt of his jeans and running a hand wearily through his hair. "Yeah ... he might not make it."

 

"Well, then, I'll be playing Keeper, won't I?" said McLaggen.

 

"Yeah," said Harry. "Yeah, I suppose so. ..."

 

He could not think of an argument against it; after all, McLaggen had certainly performed second-best in the trials.

 

"Excellent," said McLaggen in a satisfied voice. "So when's practice?"

 

"What? Oh . . . there's one tomorrow evening."

 

"Good. Listen, Potter, we should have a talk beforehand. I've got some ideas on strategy you might find useful."

 

"Right," said Harry unenthusiastically. "Well, I'll hear them tomorrow, then. I'm pretty tired now ... see you . . ."

 

The news that Ron had been poisoned spread quickly next day, but it did not cause the sensation that Katie's attack had done. People seemed to think that it might have been an accident, given that he had been in the Potions master's room at the time, and that as he had been given an antidote immediately there was no real harm done. In fact, the Gryffindors were generally much more interested in the upcoming Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, for many of them wanted to see Zacharias Smith, who played Chaser on the Hufflepuff team, punished soundly for his commentary during the opening match against Slytherin.

 

Harry, however, had never been less interested in Quidditch; he was rapidly becoming obsessed with Draco Malfoy. Still checking the Marauder's Map whenever he got a chance, he sometimes made detours to wherever Malfoy happened to be, but had not yet detected him doing anything out of the ordinary. And still there were those inexplicable times when Malfoy simply vanished from the map. . . .

 

But Harry did not get a lot of time to consider the problem, what with Quidditch practice, homework, and the fact that he was now being dogged wherever he went by Cormac McLaggen and Lavender Brown.

 

He could not decide which of them was more annoying. McLaggen kept up a constant stream of hints that he would make a better permanent Keeper for the team than Ron, and that now that Harry was seeing him play regularly he would surely come around to this way of thinking too; he was also keen to criticize the other players and provide Harry with detailed training schemes, so that more than once Harry was forced to remind him who was Captain.

 

Meanwhile, Lavender kept sidling up to Harry to discuss Ron, which Harry found almost more wearing than McLaggen's Quidditch lectures. At first, Lavender had been very annoyed that nobody had thought to tell her that Ron was in the hospital wing — "I mean, I am his girlfriend!" — but unfortunately slit-had now decided to forgive Harry this lapse of memory and was keen to have lots of in-depth chats with him about Ron's feelings, a most uncomfortable experience that Harry would have happily forgone.

 

"Look, why don't you talk to Ron about all this?" Harry asked, after a particularly long interrogation from Lavender that took in everything from precisely what Ron had said about her new drew robes to whether or not Harry thought that Ron considered his relationship with Lavender to be "serious."

 

"Well, I would, but he's always asleep when I go and see him!" said Lavender fretfully.

 

"Is he?" said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing, both highly interested in the news of Dumbledore and Snape's row and keen m abuse McLaggen as much as possible.

 

"Is Hermione Granger still visiting him?" Lavender demanded suddenly.

 

"Yeah, I think so. Well, they're friends, aren't they?" said Harry uncomfortably.

 

"Friends, don't make me laugh," said Lavender scornfully. "She didn't talk to him for weeks after he started going out with me! But I suppose she wants to make up with him now he's all interesting. ..."

 

"Would you call getting poisoned being interesting?" asked Harry. "Anyway — sorry, got to go — there's McLaggen coming for a talk about Quidditch," said Harry hurriedly, and he dashed sideways through a door pretending to be solid wall and sprinted down the shortcut that would take him off to Potions where, thankfully, neither Lavender nor McLaggen could follow him.

 

On the morning of the Quidditch match against Hufflepuff, Harry dropped in on the hospital wing before heading down to the pitch. Ron was very agitated; Madam Pomfrey would not let him go down to watch the match, feeling it would overexcite him.

 

"So how's McLaggen shaping up?" he asked Harry nervously, apparently forgetting that he had already asked the same question twice.

 

"I've told you," said Harry patiently, "he could be world-class and I wouldn't want to keep him. He keeps trying to tell everyone what to do, he thinks he could play every position better than the rest of us. I can't wait to be shot of him. And speaking of getting shot of people," Harry added, getting to his feet and picking up his Firebolt, "will you stop pretending to be asleep when Lavender comes to see you? She's driving me mad as well."

 

"Oh," said Ron, looking sheepish. "Yeah. All right."

 

"If you don't want to go out with her anymore, just tell her," said Harry.

 

"Yeah . . . well. . . it's not that easy, is it?" said Ron. He paused. "Hermione going to look in before the match?" he added casually.

 

"No, she's already gone down to the pitch with Ginny."

 

"Oh," said Ron, looking rather glum. "Right. Well, good luck. Hope you hammer McLag — I mean, Smith."

 

"I'll try," said Harry, shouldering his broom. "See you after the match."

 

He hurried down through the deserted corridors; the whole school was outside, either already seated in the stadium or heading down toward it. He was looking out of the windows he passed, trying to gauge how much wind they were facing, when a noise ahead made him glance up and he saw Malfoy walking toward him, accompanied by two girls, both of whom looked sulky and resentful.

 

Malfoy stopped short at the sight of Harry, then gave a short, humorless laugh and continued walking.

 

"Where're you going?" Harry demanded.

 

"Yeah, I'm really going to tell you, because it's your business, Potter," sneered Malfoy. "You'd better hurry up, they'll be waiting for 'the Chosen Captain' — 'the Boy Who Scored' — whatever they call you these days."

 

One of the girls gave an unwilling giggle. Harry stared at her. She blushed. Malfoy pushed past Harry and she and her friend followed at a trot, turning the corner and vanishing from view.

 

Harry stood rooted on the spot and watched them disappear. This was infuriating; he was already cutting it fine to get to the match on time and yet there was Malfoy, skulking off while the rest of the school was absent: Harry's best chance yet of discovering what Malfoy was up to. The silent seconds trickled past, and Harry remained where he was, frozen, gazing at the place where Malfoy had vanished. . . .

 

"Where have you been?" demanded Ginny, as Harry sprinted into the changing rooms. The whole team was changed and ready; Coote and Peakes, the Beaters, were both hitting their clubs nervously against their legs.

 

"I met Malfoy," Harry told her quietly, as he pulled his scarlet robes over his head.

 

"So I wanted to know how come he's up at the castle with a couple of girlfriends while everyone else is down here. ..."

 

"Does it matter right now?"

 

"Well, I'm not likely to find out, am I?" said Harry, seizing his Firebolt and pushing his glasses straight. "Come on then!"

 

And without another word, he marched out onto the pitch to deafening cheers and boos.

 

There was little wind; the clouds were patchy; every now and then there were dazzling flashes of bright sunlight.

 

"Tricky conditions!" McLaggen said bracingly to the team. "Coote, Peakes, you'll want to fly out of the sun, so they don't see you coming —"

 

"I'm the Captain, McLaggen, shut up giving them instructions," said Harry angrily. "Just get up by the goal posts!"

 

Once McLaggen had marched off, Harry turned to Coote and Peakes.

 

"Make sure you do fly out of the sun," he told them grudgingly.

 

He shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and then, on Madam Hooch's whistle, kicked off and rose into the air, higher than the rest of his team, streaking around the pitch in search of the Snitch. If he could catch it good and early, there might be a chance he could get back up to the castle, seize the Marauder's Map, and find out what Malfoy was doing. . . .

 

"And that's Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle," said a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. "He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he's playing them — oh, look, he's lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she's very nice. ..."

 

Harry stared down at the commentator's podium. Surely nobody in their right mind would have let Luna Lovegood commentate? But even from above there was no mistaking that long, dirty-blonde hair, nor the necklace of butterbeer corks. . . . Beside Luna, Professor McGonagall was looking slightly uncomfortable, as though she was indeed having second thoughts about this appointment.

 

". . . but now that big Hufflepuff player's got the Quaffle from , her, I can't remember his name, it's something like Bibble — no, Buggins —"

 

"It's Cadwallader!" said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. The crowd laughed.

 

Harry stared around for the Snitch; there was no sign of it. Moments later, Cadwallader scored. McLaggen had been shouting criticism at Ginny for allowing the Quaffle out of her possession, with the result that he had not noticed the large red ball soaring past his right ear.

 

"McLaggen, will you pay attention to what you're supposed to be doing and leave everyone else alone!" bellowed Harry, wheeling around to face his Keeper.

 

"You're not setting a great example!" McLaggen shouted back, red-faced and furious.

 

"And Harry Potter's now having an argument with his Keeper," said Luna serenely, while both Hufflepuffs and Slytherins below in the crowd cheered and jeered. "I don't think that'll help him find the Snitch, but maybe it's a clever ruse. ..."

 

Swearing angrily, Harry spun round and set off around the pitch again, scanning the skies for some sign of the tiny, winged golden ball.

 

Ginny and Demelza scored a goal apiece, giving the red-and-gold-clad supporters below something to cheer about. Then Cadwallader scored again, making things level, but Luna did not seem to have noticed; she appeared singularly uninterested in such mundane things as the score, and kept attempting to draw the crowd's attention to such things as interestingly shaped clouds and the possibility that Zacharias Smith, who had so far failed to maintain possession of the Quaffle for longer than a minute, was suffering from something called "Loser's Lurgy."

 

"Seventy-forty to Hufflepuff!" barked Professor McGonagall into Luna's megaphone.

 

"Is it, already?" said Luna vaguely. "Oh, look! The Gryffindor Keeper's got hold of one of the Beater's bats."

 

Harry spun around in midair. Sure enough, McLaggen, for reasons best known to himself, had pulled Peakes's bat from him and appeared to be demonstrating how to hit a Bludger toward an oncoming Cadwallader.

 

"Will you give him back his bat and get back to the goal posts!" roared Harry, pelting toward McLaggen just as McLaggen took a ferocious swipe at the Bludger and mishit it.

 

A blinding, sickening pain ... a flash of light. . . distant screams . . . and the sensation of falling down a long tunnel. . .

 

And the next thing Harry knew, he was lying in a remarkably warm and comfortable bed and looking up at a lamp that was throwing a circle of golden light onto a shadowy ceiling. He raised his head awkwardly. There on his left was a familiar-looking, freckly, red-haired person.

 

"Nice of you to drop in," said Ron, grinning.

 

Harry blinked and looked around. Of course: He was in the hospital wing. The sky outside was indigo streaked with crimson. The match must have finished hours ago ... as had any hope of cornering Malfoy. Harry's head felt strangely heavy; he raised a hand and felt a stiff turban of bandages.

 

"What happened?"

 

"Cracked skull," said Madam Pomfrey, bustling up and pushing him back against his pillows. "Nothing to worry about, I mended it at once, but I'm keeping you in overnight. You shouldn't over exert yourself for a few hours."

 

"I don't want to stay here overnight," said Harry angrily, sitting up and throwing back his covers. "I want to find McLaggen and kill him."

 

"I'm afraid that would come under the heading of 'overexertion,'" said Madam Pomfrey, pushing him firmly back onto the bed and raising her wand in a threatening manner. "You will stay here until I discharge you, Potter, or I shall call the headmaster."

 

She bustled back into her office, and Harry sank back into his pillows, fuming.

 

"D'you know how much we lost by?" he asked Ron through clenched teeth.

 

"Well, yeah I do," said Ron apologetically. "Final score was three hundred and twenty to sixty."

 

"Brilliant," said Harry savagely. "Really brilliant! When I get hold of McLaggen —"

 

"You don't want to get hold of him, he's the size of a troll," said

 

Ron reasonably. "Personally, I think there's a lot to be said for hexing him with that toenail thing of the Prince's. Anyway, the rest of the team might've dealt with him before you get out of here, they're not happy. ..."

 

There was a note of badly suppressed glee in Rons voice; Harry could tell he was nothing short of thrilled that McLaggen had messed up so badly. Harry lay there, staring up at the patch of light on the ceiling, his recently mended skull not hurting, precisely, but feeling slightly tender underneath all the bandaging.

 

"I could hear the match commentary from here," said Ron, his voice now shaking with laughter. "I hope Luna always commentates from now on. . . . Loser's Lurgy ..."

 

But Harry was still too angry to see much humor in the situation, and after a while Ron's snorts subsided.

 

"Ginny came in to visit while you were unconscious," he said, after a long pause, and Harry's imagination zoomed into overdrive, rapidly constructing a scene in which Ginny, weeping over his lifeless form, confessed her feelings of deep attraction to him while Ron gave them his blessing. . . ."She reckons you only just arrived on time for the match. How come? You left here early enough."

 

"Oh . . ." said Harry, as the scene in his mind's eye imploded. "Yeah . . . well, I saw Malfoy sneaking off with a couple of girls who didn't look like they wanted to be with him, and that's the second time he's made sure he isn't down on the Quidditch pitch with the rest of the school; he skipped the last match too, remember?" Harry sighed. "Wish I'd followed him now, the match was such a fiasco. . . ."

 

"Don't be stupid," said Ron sharply. "You couldn't have missed a Quidditch match just to follow Malfoy, you're the Captain!"

 

"I want to know what he's up to," said Harry. "And don't tell nn its all in my head, not after what I overheard between him and Snape —"

 

"I never said it was all in your head," said Ron, hoisting himself up on an elbow in turn and frowning at Harry, "but there's no rule saying only one person at a time can be plotting anything in this place! You're getting a bit obsessed with Malfoy, Harry. I mean, thinking about missing a match just to follow him ..."

 

"I want to catch him at it!" said Harry in frustration. "I mean, where's he going when he disappears off the map?"

 

"I dunno . . . Hogsmeade?" suggested Ron, yawning.

 

"I've never seen him going along any of the secret passageway on the map. I thought they were being watched now anyway?"

 

"Well then, I dunno," said Ron.

 

Silence fell between them. Harry stared up at the circle of lamp light above him, thinking. . . .

 

If only he had Rufus Scrimgeour's power, he would have been able to set a tail upon Malfoy, but unfortunately Harry did not have an office full of Aurors at his command. . . . He thought fleetingly of trying to set something up with the D.A., but there again was the problem that people would be missed from lessons; most of them, after all, still had full schedules. . . .

 

There was a low, rumbling snore from Ron's bed. After a while Madam Pomfrey came out of her office, this time wearing a thick dressing gown. It was easiest to feign sleep; Harry rolled over onto his side and listened to all the curtains closing themselves as she waved her wand. The lamps dimmed, and she returned to her office; he heard the door click behind her and knew that she was off to bed.

 

This was, Harry reflected in the darkness, the third time that he had been brought to the hospital wing because of a Quidditch injury. Last time he had fallen off his broom due to the presence of dementors around the pitch, and the time before that, all the bones had been removed from his arm by the incurably inept Professor Lockhart. . . . That had been his most painful injury by far ... he remembered the agony of regrowing an armful of bones in one night, a discomfort not eased by the arrival of an unexpected visitor in the middle of the —

 

Harry sat bolt upright, his heart pounding, his bandage turban askew. He had the solution at last: There was a way to have Malfoy followed — how could he have forgotten, why hadn't he thought

 

of it before?

 

But the question was, how to call him? What did you do? Quietly, tentatively, Harry spoke into the darkness.

 

"Kreacher?"

 

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There was a very loud crack, and the sounds of scuffling and squeaks filled the silent room. Ron awoke with a yelp.

 

"What's going — ?"

 

Harry pointed his wand hastily at the door of Madam Pomfrey's office and muttered, "Muffliato!" so that she would not come running. Then he scrambled to the end of his bed for a better look at

 

what was going on.

 

Two house-elves were rolling around on the floor in the middle of the dormitory, one wearing a shrunken maroon jumper and several woolly hats, the other, a filthy old rag strung over his hips like a loincloth. Then there was another loud bang, and Peeves the Poltergeist appeared in midair above the wrestling elves.

 

"I was watching that, Potty!" he told Harry indignantly, pointing at the fight below, before letting out a loud cackle. "Look at the ickle creatures squabbling, bitey bitey, punchy punchy —"

 

"Kreacher will not insult Harry Potter in front of Dobby, no he won't, or Dobby will shut Kreacher's mouth for him!" cried Dobby in a high-pitched voice.

 

"— kicky, scratchy!" cried Peeves happily, now pelting bits of' chalk at the elves to enrage them further. "Tweaky, pokey!"

 

"Kreacher will say what he likes about his master, oh yes, and what a master he is, filthy friend of Mudbloods, oh, what would poor Kreacher's mistress say — ?"

 

Exactly what Kreacher's mistress would have said they did not find out, for at that moment Dobby sank his knobbly little fist into Kreacher’s mouth and knocked out half of his teeth. Harry and Ron both leapt out of their beds and wrenched the two elves apart, though they continued to try and kick and punch each other, egged on by Peeves, who swooped around the lamp squealing, "Stick your fingers up his nosey, draw his cork and pull his earsies —"

 

Harry aimed his wand at Peeves and said, "Langlock!" Peeves clutched at his throat, gulped, then swooped from the room making obscene gestures but unable to speak, owing to the fact that his tongue had just glued itself to the roof of his mouth.

 

"Nice one," said Ron appreciatively, lifting Dobby into the air so that his flailing limbs no longer made contact with Kreacher. "That was another Prince hex, wasn't it?"

 

"Yeah," said Harry, twisting Kreacher's wizened arm into a half nelson. "Right — I'm forbidding you to fight each other! Well, Kreacher, you're forbidden to fight Dobby. Dobby, I know I'm not allowed to give you orders —"

 

"Dobby is a free house-elf and he can obey anyone he likes and Dobby will do whatever Harry Potter wants him to do!" said Dobby, tears now streaming down his shriveled little face onto his jumper.

 

"Okay then," said Harry, and he and Ron both released the elves, who fell to the floor but did not continue fighting.

 

"Master called me?" croaked Kreacher, sinking into a bow even as he gave Harry a look that plainly wished him a painful death.

 

"Yeah, I did," said Harry, glancing toward Madam Pomfrey's office door to check that the Muffliato spell was still working; there was no sign that she had heard any of the commotion. "I've got a job for you."

 

"Kreacher will do whatever Master wants," said Kreacher, sinking so low that his lips almost touched his gnarled toes, "because Kreacher has no choice, but Kreacher is ashamed to have such a master, yes —"

 

"Dobby will do it, Harry Potter!" squeaked Dobby, his tennis-ball-sized eyes still swimming in tears. "Dobby would be honored to help Harry Potter!"

 

"Come to think of it, it would be good to have both of you," said Harry. "Okay then ... I want you to tail Draco Malfoy."

 

Ignoring the look of mingled surprise and exasperation on Ron's face, Harry went on, "I want to know where he's going, who he's meeting, and what he's doing. I want you to follow him around the clock."

 

"Yes, Harry Potter!" said Dobby at once, his great eyes shining with excitement. "And if Dobby does it wrong, Dobby will throw himself off the topmost tower, Harry Potter!"

 

"There won't be any need for that," said Harry hastily.

 

"Master wants me to follow the youngest of the Malfoys?" croaked Kreacher. "Master wants me to spy upon the pure-blood great-nephew of my old mistress?"

 

"That's the one," said Harry, foreseeing a great danger and determining to prevent it immediately. "And you're forbidden to tip him off, Kreacher, or to show him what you're up to, or to talk to him at all, or to write him messages or ... or to contact him in any way. Got it?"

 

He thought he could see Kreacher struggling to see a loophole in the instructions he had just been given and waited. After a moment or two, and to Harrys great satisfaction, Kreacher bowed deeply again and said, with bitter resentment, "Master thinks of everything, and Kreacher must obey him even though Kreacher would much rather be the servant of the Malfoy boy, oh yes. . . ."

 

"That's settled, then," said Harry. "I'll want regular reports, but make sure I'm not surrounded by people when you turn up. Ron and Hermione are okay. And don't tell anyone what you're doing. Just stick to Malfoy like a couple of wart plasters."

Chapter 20: Lord Voldemort's Request

 

Harry and Ron left the hospital wing first thing on Monday morning, restored to full health by the ministrations of Madam Pomfrey and now able to enjoy the benefits of having been knocked out and poisoned, the best of which was that Hermione was friends with Ron again. Hermione even escorted them down to breakfast, bringing with her the news that Ginny had argued with Dean. The drowsing creature in Harry's chest suddenly raised its head, sniffing the air hopefully.

 

"What did they row about?" he asked, trying to sound casual as they turned onto a seventh-floor corridor that was deserted but for a very small girl who had been examining a tapestry of trolls in tutus. She looked terrified at the sight of the approaching sixth years and dropped the heavy brass scales she was carrying.

 

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

 

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She tapped the broken scales with her wand and said, "Reparo." The girl did not say thank you, but remained rooted to the spot as they passed and watched them out of sight; Ron glanced back at her.

 

"I swear they're getting smaller," he said.

 

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

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

 

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

 

"I just don't want my Quidditch team messed up again!" he said hastily, but Hermione continued to look suspicious, and he was most relieved when a voice behind them called, "Harry!" giving him an excuse to turn his back on her. "Oh, hi, Luna."

 

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

 

She thrust what appeared to be a green onion, a large spotted toadstool, and a considerable amount of what looked like cat litter into Ron's hands, finally pulling out a rather grubby scroll of parchment that she handed to Harry.

 

 

"Oh, Dean was laughing about McLaggen hitting that Bludgu at you," said Hermione.

 

"It must've looked funny," said Ron reasonably. "It didn't look funny at all!" said Hermione hotly. "It looked terrible and if Coote and Peakes hadn't caught Harry he could have been very badly hurt!"

 

". . . I've been told to give you this."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

"C'mon," Harry muttered to Hermione, and they sped past, though not before they had heard Lavender say, "Why didn't you tell me you were getting out today? And why was she with you?" "I am weak..." he said.

 

Ron looked both sulky and annoyed when he appeared at breakfast half an hour later, and though he sat with Lavender, Harry did not see them exchange a word all the time they were together. Hermione was acting as though she was quite oblivious to all of this, but once or twice Harry saw an inexplicable smirk cross her face. All that day she seemed to be in a particularly good mood, and that evening in the common room she even consented to look over (in other words, finish writing) Harry's Herbology essay, something she had been resolutely refusing to do up to this point, because she had known that Harry would then let Ron copy his work. "Don't worry, sir," said Harry at once, anxious about Dumbledore's extreme pallor and by his air of exhaustion. "Don't worry, I'll get us back. . . . Lean on me, sir. . . ."

 

"Thanks a lot, Hermione," said Harry, giving her a hasty pat on the back as he checked his watch and saw that it was nearly eight o'clock. "Listen, I’ve got to hurry or I'll be late for Dumbledore. ..."

 

She did not answer, but merely crossed out a few of his feebler sentences in a weary sort of way. Grinning, Harry hurried out through the portrait hole and off to the headmasters office. The gargoyle leapt aside at the mention of toffee eclairs, and Harry took the spiral staircase two steps at a time, knocking on the door just as a clock within chimed eight.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"My dear Sybill," said Dumbledore in a slightly exasperated voice, "there is no question of throwing you unceremoniously from anywhere, but Harry does have an appointment, and I really don't think there is any more to be said —"

 

"Very well," said Professor Trelawney, in a deeply wounded voice. "If you will not banish the usurping nag, so be it. ...

 

Perhaps I shall find a school where my talents are better appreciated. ..."

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

"No," said Dumbledore, "Divination is turning out to be much more trouble than I could have foreseen, never having studied the subject myself. I cannot ask Firenze to return to the forest, where he is now an outcast, nor can I ask Sybill Trelawney to leave. Between ourselves, she has no idea of the danger she would be in outside the castle. She does not know — and I think it would be unwise to enlighten her — that she made the prophecy about you and Voldemort, you see."

 

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh, then said, "But never mind my staffing problems. We have much more important matters to discuss. Firstly — have you managed the task I set you at the end of our previous lesson?"

 

"Ah," said Harry, brought up short. What with Apparition lessons and Quidditch and Ron being poisoned and getting his skull cracked and his determination to find out what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry had almost forgotten about the memory Dumbledore had asked him to extract from Professor Slughorn. "Well, I asked Professor Slughorn about it at the end of Potions, sir, but, er, he wouldn't give it to me." There was a little silence.

 

"I see," said Dumbledore eventually, peering at Harry over the top of his half-moon spectacles and giving Harry the usual sensation that he was being X-rayed. "And you feel that you have exerted your very best efforts in this matter, do you? That you have exercised all of your considerable ingenuity? That you have left no depth of cunning unplumbed in your quest to retrieve the memory?"

 

"Well," Harry stalled, at a loss for what to say next. His single attempt to get hold of the memory suddenly seemed embarrassingly feeble. "Well . . . the day Ron swallowed love potion by mistake I took him to Professor Slughorn. I thought maybe if I got Professor Slughorn in a good enough mood —" "And did that work?" asked Dumbledore. "Well, no, sir, because Ron got poisoned —" "— which, naturally, made you forget all about trying to retrieve the memory; I would have expected nothing else, while your best friend was in danger. Once it became clear that Mr. Weasley was going to make a full recovery, however, I would have hoped that you returned to the task I set you. I thought I made it clear to you how very important that memory is. Indeed, I did my best to impress upon you that it is the most crucial memory of all and that we will be wasting our time without it."

 

A hot, prickly feeling of shame spread from the top of Harry’s head all the way down his body. Dumbledore had not raised his voice, he did not even sound angry, but Harry would have preferred him to yell; this cold disappointment was worse than anything.

 

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

 

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

 

Silence fell between them again, the most uncomfortable silence Harry had ever experienced with Dumbledore; it seemed to go on and on, punctuated only by the little grunting snores of the portrait of Armando Dippet over Dumbledore's head. Harry felt strangely diminished, as though he had shrunk a little since he had entered the room. When he could stand it no longer he said, "Professor Dumbledore, I'm really sorry. I should have done more. ... I should have realized you wouldn't have asked me to do it if it wasn't really important."

 

"Thank you for saying that, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly. "May I hope, then, that you will give this matter higher priority from now on? There will be little point in our meeting after tonight unless we have that memory."

 

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

 

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

 

"Yes, sir," said Harry quickly. "Voldemort killed his father and his grandparents and made it look as though his Uncle Morfin did it. Then he went back to Hogwarts and he asked ... he asked Professor Slughorn about Horcruxes," he mumbled shamefacedly.

 

"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Now, you will remember, I hope, that I told you at the very outset of these meetings of ours that we would be entering the realms of guesswork and speculation?"

 

“Yes, sir”.

 

"Thus far, as I hope you agree, I have shown you reasonably firm sources of fact for my deductions as to what Voldemort did until the age of seventeen?"

 

Harry nodded.

 

"But now, Harry," said Dumbledore, "now things become murkier and stranger. If it was difficult to find evidence about the boy Riddle, it has been almost impossible to find anyone prepared to reminisce about the man Voldemort. In fact, I doubt whether there is a soul alive, apart from himself, who could give us a full account of his life since he left Hogwarts. However, I have two last memories that I would like to share with you." Dumbledore indicated the two little crystal bottles gleaming beside the Pensieve. "I shall then be glad of your opinion as to whether the conclusions I have drawn from them seem likely."

 

The idea that Dumbledore valued his opinion this highly made Harry feel even more deeply ashamed that he had failed in the task of retrieving the Horcrux memory, and he shifted guiltily in his seat as Dumbledore raised the first of the two bottles to the light and examined it.

 

"I hope you are not tired of diving into other people's memories, for they are curious recollections, these two," he said. "This first one came from a very old house-elf by the name of Hokey. Before we see what Hokey witnessed, I must quickly recount how Lord Voldemort left Hogwarts.

 

"He reached the seventh year of his schooling with, as you might have expected, top grades in every examination he had taken. All around him, his classmates were deciding which jobs they were to pursue once they had left Hogwarts. Nearly everybody expected spectacular things from Tom Riddle, prefect, Head Boy, winner of the Award for Special Services to the School. I know that several teachers, Professor Slughorn amongst them, suggested that he join the Ministry of Magic, offered to set up appointments, put him in touch with useful contacts. He refused all offers. The next thing the staff knew, Voldemort was working at Borgin and Burkes."

 

"At Borgin and Burkes?" Harry repeated, stunned.

 

"At Borgin and Burkes," repeated Dumbledore calmly. "I think you will see what attractions the place held for him when we have entered Hokey's memory. But this was not Voldemort's first choice of job. Hardly anyone knew of it at the time — I was one of the few in whom the then headmaster confided — but Voldemort first approached Professor Dippet and asked whether he could remain at Hogwarts as a teacher."

 

"He wanted to stay here? Why?" asked Harry, more amazed still.

 

 "I believe he had several reasons, though he confided none of them to Professor Dippet," said Dumbledore. "Firstly, and very importantly, Voldemort was, I believe, more attached to this school than he has ever been to a person. Hogwarts was where he had been happiest; the first and only place he had felt at home."

 

Harry felt slightly uncomfortable at these words, for this was exactly how he felt about Hogwarts too.

 

"Secondly, the castle is a stronghold of ancient magic. Undoubtedly Voldemort had penetrated many more of its secrets than most of the students who pass through the place, but he may have felt that there were still mysteries to unravel, stores of magic to tap.

 

"And thirdly, as a teacher, he would have had great power and influence over young witches and wizards. Perhaps he had gained the idea from Professor Slughorn, the teacher with whom he was on best terms, who had demonstrated how influential a role a teacher can play. I do not imagine for an instant that Voldemort envisaged spending the rest of his life at Hogwarts, but I do think that he saw it as a useful recruiting ground, and a place where he might begin to build himself an army."

 

"But he didn't get the job, sir?"

 

"No, he did not. Professor Dippet told him that he was too young at eighteen, but invited him to reapply in a few years, if he still wished to teach."

 

"How did you feel about that, sir?" asked Harry hesitantly. "Deeply uneasy," said Dumbledore. "I had advised Armando against the appointment — I did not give the reasons I have given you, for Professor Dippet was very fond of Voldemort and convinced of his honesty. But I did not want Lord Voldemort back at this school, and especially not in a position of power."

 

"Which job did he want, sir? What subject did he want to teach?"

 

Somehow, Harry knew the answer even before Dumbledore gave it.

 

"Defense Against the Dark Arts. It was being taught at the time by an old Professor by the name of Galatea Merrythought, who had been at Hogwarts for nearly fifty years.

 

"So Voldemort went off to Borgin and Burkes, and all the staff who had admired him said what a waste it was, a brilliant young wizard like that, working in a shop. However, Voldemort was no mere assistant. Polite and handsome and clever, he was soon given particular jobs of the type that only exist in a place like Borgin and Burkes, which specializes, as you know, Harry, in objects with unusual and powerful properties. Voldemort was sent to persuade people to part with their treasures for sale by the partners, and he was, by all accounts, unusually gifted at doing this."

 

"I'll bet he was," said Harry, unable to contain himself.

 

"Well, quite," said Dumbledore, with a faint smile. "And now it is time to hear from Hokey the house-elf, who worked for a very old, very rich witch by the name of Hepzibah Smith."

 

Dumbledore tapped a bottle with his wand, the cork flew out, and he tipped the swirling memory into the Pensieve, saying as he did so, "After you, Harry."

 

Harry got to his feet and bent once more over the rippling silver contents of the stone basin until his face touched them. He tumbled through dark nothingness and landed in a sitting room in front of an immensely fat old lady wearing an elaborate ginger wig and a brilliant pink set of robes that flowed all around her, giving her the look of a melting iced cake. She was looking into a small jeweled mirror and dabbing rouge onto her already scarlet cheeks with a large powder puff, while the tiniest and oldest house-elf Harry had ever seen laced her fleshy feet into tight satin slippers.

 

"Hurry up, Hokey!" said Hepzibah imperiously. "He said he'd come at four, it's only a couple of minutes to and he's never been late yet!"

 

She tucked away her powder puff as the house-elf straightened up. The top of the elf's head barely reached the seat of Hepzibah's chair, and her papery skin hung off her frame just like the crisp linen sheet she wore draped like a toga.

 

"How do I look?" said Hepzibah, turning her head to admire the various angles of her face in the mirror.

 

"Lovely, madam," squeaked Hokey.

 

Harry could only assume that it was down in Hokey’s contract that she must lie through her teeth when asked this question, because Hepzibah Smith looked a long way from lovely in his opinion.

 

A tinkling doorbell rang and both mistress and elf jumped.

 

"Quick, quick, he's here, Hokey!" cried Hepzibah and the elf scurried out of the room, which was so crammed with objects that it was difficult to see how anybody could navigate their way across it without knocking over at least a dozen things: There were cabinets full of little lacquered boxes, cases full of gold-embossed books, shelves of orbs and celestial globes, and many flourishing potted plants in brass containers. In fact, the room looked like a cross between a magical antique shop and a conservatory.

 

 The house-elf returned within minutes, followed by a tall young man Harry had no difficulty whatsoever in recognizing as Voldemort. He was plainly dressed in a black suit; his hair was a little longer than it had been at school and his cheeks were hollowed, but all of this suited him; he looked more handsome than ever. He picked his way through the cramped room with an air that showed he had visited many times before and bowed low over Hepzibah's fat little hand, brushing it with his lips.

 

"I brought you flowers," he said quietly, producing a bunch of roses from nowhere.

 

"You naughty boy, you shouldn't have!" squealed old Hepzibah, though Harry noticed that she had an empty vase standing ready on the nearest little table. "You do spoil this old lady, Tom. ... Sit down, sit down. . . . Where's Hokey? Ah ..."

 

The house-elf had come dashing back into the room carrying a tray of little cakes, which she set at her mistress's elbow.

 

"Help yourself, Tom," said Hepzibah, "I know how you love my cakes. Now, how are you? You look pale. They overwork you at that shop, I've said it a hundred times. ..."

 

Voldemort smiled mechanically and Hepzibah simpered.

 

"Well, what's your excuse for visiting this time?" she asked, bat-ring her lashes.

 

"Mr. Burke would like to make an improved offer for the goblin-made armor," said Voldemort. "Five hundred Galleons, he feels it is a more than fair —"

 

"Now, now, not so fast, or I’ll think you're only here for my trinkets!" pouted Hepzibah.

 

"I am ordered here because of them," said Voldemort quietly. "I am only a poor assistant, madam, who must do as he is told. Mr. Burke wishes me to inquire —"

 

"Oh, Mr. Burke, phooey!" said Hepzibah, waving a little hand. "I've something to show you that I've never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won't tell Mr. Burke I've got it? He'd never let me rest if he knew I'd shown it to you, and I'm not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you'll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it."

 

"I'd be glad to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me," said Voldemort quietly, and Hepzibah gave another girlish giggle.

 

"I had Hokey bring it out for me . . . Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. ... In fact, bring both, while you're at it. ..."

 

"Here, madam," squeaked the house-elf, and Harry saw two leather boxes, one on top of the other, moving across the room as if of their own volition, though he knew the tiny elf was holding them over her head as she wended her way between tables, ***pouffes, and footstools.

 

"Now," said Hepzibah happily, taking the boxes from the elf, laying them in her lap, and preparing to open the topmost one, "I think you'll like this, Tom. . . . Oh, if my family knew I was showing you. . . . They can't wait to get their hands on this!"

 

She opened the lid. Harry edged forward a little to get a better view and saw what looked like a small golden cup with two finely wrought handles.

 

"I wonder whether you know what it is, Tom? Pick it up, have a good look!" whispered Hepzibah, and Voldemort stretched out a long-fingered hand and lifted the cup by one handle out of its snug silken wrappings. Harry thought he saw a red gleam in his dark eyes. His greedy expression was curiously mirrored on Hepzibah’s face, except that her tiny eyes were fixed upon Voldemort's handsome features.

 

"A badger," murmured Voldemort, examining the engraving upon the cup. "Then this was . . . ?"

 

"Helga Hufflepuff's, as you very well know, you clever boy!" said Hepzibah, leaning forward with a loud creaking of corsets and actually pinching his hollow cheek. "Didn't I tell you I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn't it? And all sorts of powers it's supposed to possess too, but I haven't tested them thoroughly, I just keep it nice and safe in here. . . ."

 

She hooked the cup back off Voldemort's long forefinger and restored it gently to its box, too intent upon settling it carefully back into position to notice the shadow that crossed Voldemort's face as the cup was taken away.

 

"Now then," said Hepzibah happily, "where’s Hokey? Oh yes, there you are — take that away now, Hokey."

 

The elf obediently took the boxed cup, and Hepzibah turned her attention to the much flatter box in her lap.

 

"I think you'll like this even more, Tom," she whispered. "Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see. . . . Of course, Burke knows I've got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he'd love to get it back when I'm gone. ..."

 

She slid back the fine filigree clasp and flipped open the box. There upon the smooth crimson velvet lay a heavy golden locket.

 

Voldemort reached out his hand, without invitation this time, and held it up to the light, staring at it.

 

"Slytherin's mark," he said quietly, as the light played upon an ornate, serpentine S.

 

"That's right!" said Hepzibah, delighted, apparently, at the sight of Voldemort gazing at her locket, transfixed. "I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn't let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value —"

 

There was no mistaking it this time: Voldemort's eyes flashed scarlet at the words, and Harry saw his knuckles whiten on the locket's chain.

 

"— I daresay Burke paid her a pittance but there you are. . . . Pretty, isn't it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe. . . ."

 

She reached out to take the locket back. For a moment, Harry thought Voldemort was not going to let go of it, but then it had slid through his fingers and was back in its red velvet cushion.

 

“So there you are, Tom, clear, and I hope you enjoyed that!”

 

She looked him full in the face and for the first time, Harry saw her foolish smile falter.

 

"Are you all right, dear?"

 

"Oh yes," said Voldemort quietly. "Yes, I'm very well. ..."

 

“I thought — but a trick of the light, I suppose —" said Hepzibah, looking unnerved, and Harry guessed that she too had seen the momentary red gleam in Voldemort's eyes. "Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again. ... The usual enchantments... 

 

"Time to leave, Harry," said Dumbledore quietly, and as the in tie elf bobbed away bearing the boxes, Dumbledore grasped Harry once again above the elbow and together they rose up through oblivion and back to Dumbledore's office.

 

"Hepzibah Smith died two days after that little scene," said Dumbledore, resuming his seat and indicating that Harry should do the same. "Hokey the house-elf was convicted by the Ministry of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident."

 

"No way!" said Harry angrily.

 

"I see we are of one mind," said Dumbledore. "Certainly, then are many similarities between this death and that of the Riddles. In both cases, somebody else took the blame, someone who had a clear memory of having caused the death —" "Hokey confessed?"

 

"She remembered putting something in her mistress's cocoa that turned out not to be sugar, but a lethal and little-known poison, said Dumbledore. "It was concluded that she had not meant to do it, but being old and confused —"

 

"Voldemort modified her memory, just like he did with Morfin!" "Yes, that is my conclusion too," said Dumbledore. "And, just as with Morfin, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey —"

 

"— because she was a house-elf," said Harry. He had rarely felt more in sympathy with the society Hermione had set up, S.P.E.W. "Precisely," said Dumbledore. "She was old, she admitted to having tampered with the drink, and nobody at the Ministry bothered to inquire further. As in the case of Morfin, by the time I traced her and managed to extract this memory, her life was almost over — but her memory, of course, proves nothing except that Voldemort knew of the existence of the cup and the locket.

 

"By the time Hokey was convicted, Hepzibah's family had realized that two of her greatest treasures were missing. It took them a while to be sure of this, for she had many hiding places, having always guarded her collection most jealously. But before they were sure beyond doubt that the cup and the locket were both gone, the assistant who had worked at Borgin and Burkes, the young man who had visited Hepzibah so regularly and charmed her so well, had resigned his post and vanished. His superiors had no idea where he had gone; they were as surprised as anyone at his disappearance. And that was the last that was seen or heard of Tom Riddle for a very long time.

 

"Now," said Dumbledore, "if you don't mind, Harry, I want to pause once more to draw your attention to certain points of our story. Voldemort had committed another murder; whether it was his first since he killed the Riddles, I do not know, but I think it was. This time, as you will have seen, he killed not for revenge, but for gain. He wanted the two fabulous trophies that poor, besotted, old woman showed him. Just as he had once robbed the other children at his orphanage, just as he had stolen his Uncle Morfin’s ring, so he ran off now with Hepzibahs cup and locket."

 

"But," said Harry, frowning, "it seems mad. . . . Risking everything, throwing away his job, just for those . . ."

 

"Mad to you, perhaps, but not to Voldemort," said Dumbledore. "I hope you will understand in due course exactly what those objects meant to him, Harry, but you must admit that it is not difficult to imagine that he saw the locket, at least, as rightfully his." "The locket maybe," said Harry, "but why take the cup as well?"

 

"It had belonged to another of Hogwarts’s founders," said Dumbledore. "I think he still felt a great pull toward the school and that he could not resist an object so steeped in Hogwarts history. There were other reasons, I think. ... I hope to be able to demonstrate them to you in due course.

 

"And now for the very last recollection I have to show you, at least until you manage to retrieve Professor Slughorn's memory for us. Ten years separates Hokey’s memory and this one, ten years during which we can only guess at what Lord Voldemort was doing. . . ." Harry got to his feet once more as Dumbledore emptied the last memory into the Pensieve.

 

"Whose memory is it?" he asked. "Mine," said Dumbledore.

 

And Harry dived after Dumbledore through the shifting silver mass, landing in the very office he had just left. There was Fawkes slumbering happily on his perch, and there behind the desk was Dumbledore, who looked very similar to the Dumbledore standing beside Harry, though both hands were whole and undamaged and his face was, perhaps, a little less lined. The one difference between the present-day office and this one was that it was snowing in the past; bluish flecks were drifting past the window in the dark and building up on the outside ledge.

 

The younger Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for something, and sure enough, moments after their arrival, there was a knock on the door and he said, "Enter."

 

Harry let out a hastily stifled gasp. Voldemort had entered the room. His features were not those Harry had seen emerge from the great stone cauldron almost two years ago: They were not as snake-like, the eyes were not yet scarlet, the face not yet masklike, and yet he was no longer handsome Tom Riddle. It was as though his features had been burned and blurred; they were waxy and oddly distorted, and the whites of the eyes now had a permanently bloody look, though the pupils were not yet the slits that Harry knew they would become. He was wearing a long black cloak, and his face was as pale as the snow glistening on his shoulders.

 

The Dumbledore behind the desk showed no sign of surprise. Evidently this visit had been made by appointment.

 

"Good evening, Tom," said Dumbledore easily. "Won't you sit down?"

 

"Thank you," said Voldemort, and he took the seat to which Dumbledore had gestured — the very seat, by the looks of it, that Harry had just vacated in the present. "I heard that you had become headmaster," he said, and his voice was slightly higher and colder than it had been. "A worthy choice."

 

"I am glad you approve," said Dumbledore, smiling. "May I offer you a drink?"

 

"That would be welcome," said Voldemort. "I have come a long way."

 

Dumbledore stood and swept over to the cabinet where he now kept the Pensieve, but which then was full of bottles. Having handed Voldemort a goblet of wine and poured one for himself, he returned to the seat behind his desk. . "So, Tom ... to what do I owe the pleasure?"

 

Voldemort did not answer at once, but merely sipped his wine.

 

"They do not call me 'Tom' anymore," he said. "These days, 1 am known as —"

 

"I know what you are known as," said Dumbledore, smiling, pleasantly. "But to me, I'm afraid, you will always be Tom Riddle. It is one of the irritating things about old teachers. I am afraid that they never quite forget their charges' youthful beginnings."

 

He raised his glass as though toasting Voldemort, whose face remained expressionless. Nevertheless, Harry felt the atmosphere in the room change subtly: Dumbledore's refusal to use Voldemort’s chosen name was a refusal to allow Voldemort to dictate the terms of the meeting, and Harry could tell that Voldemort took it as such.

 

"I am surprised you have remained here so long," said Voldemort after a short pause. "I always wondered why a wizard such as yourself never wished to leave school."

 

"Well," said Dumbledore, still smiling, "to a wizard such as myself, there can be nothing more important than passing on ancient skills, helping hone young minds. If I remember correctly, you once saw the attraction of teaching too."

 

"I see it still," said Voldemort. "I merely wondered why you — who are so often asked for advice by the Ministry, and who have twice, I think, been offered the post of Minister —"

 

"Three times at the last count, actually," said Dumbledore. "But the Ministry never attracted me as a career. Again, something we have in common, I think."

 

Voldemort inclined his head, unsmiling, and took another sip of wine. Dumbledore did not break the silence that stretched between them now, but waited, with a look of pleasant expectancy, for Voldemort to talk first.

 

"I have returned," he said, after a little while, "later, perhaps, than Professor Dippet expected . . . but I have returned, nevertheless, to request again what he once told me I was too young to have. I have come to you to ask that you permit me to return to this castle, to teach. I think you must know that I have seen and done much since I left this place. I could show and tell your students things they can gain from no other wizard."

 

Dumbledore considered Voldemort over the top of his own goblet for a while before speaking.

 

"Yes, I certainly do know that you have seen and done much since leaving us," he said quietly. "Rumors of your doings have reached your old school, Tom. I should be sorry to believe half of them."

 

Voldemort's expression remained impassive as he said, "Greatness inspires envy, envy engenders spite, spite spawns lies. You must know this, Dumbledore."

 

"You call it 'greatness,' what you have been doing, do you?" asked Dumbledore delicately.

 

"Certainly," said Voldemort, and his eyes seemed to burn red. "I have experimented; I have pushed the boundaries of magic further, perhaps, than they have ever been pushed —"

 

"Of some kinds of magic," Dumbledore corrected him quietly. "Of some. Of others, you remain . . . forgive me . . . woefully ignorant."

 

For the first time, Voldemort smiled. It was a taut leer, an evil thing, more threatening than a look of rage.

 

"The old argument," he said softly. "But nothing I have seen in the world has supported your famous pronouncements that love is more powerful than my kind of magic, Dumbledore."

 

"Perhaps you have been looking in the wrong places," suggested Dumbledore.

 

 

"Well, then, what better place to start my fresh researches than here, at Hogwarts?" said Voldemort. "Will you let me return? Will you let me share my knowledge with your students? I place myself and my talents at your disposal. I am yours to command."

 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "And what will become of those whom you command? What will happen to those who call themselves — or so rumor has it — the Death Eaters?"

 

Harry could tell that Voldemort had not expected Dumbledore to know this name; he saw Voldemort’s eyes flash red again and the slitlike nostrils flare.

 

"My friends," he said, after a moment's pause, "will carry on without me, I am sure."

 

"I am glad to hear that you consider them friends," said Dumbledore. "I was under the impression that they are more in the order of servants."

 

"You are mistaken," said Voldemort.

 

"Then if I were to go to the Hog's Head tonight, I would not find a group of them — Nott, Rosier, Muldber, Dolohov — awaiting your return? Devoted friends indeed, to travel this far with you on a snowy night, merely to wish you luck as you attempted to secure a teaching post."

 

There could be no doubt that Dumbledore's detailed knowledge of those with whom he was traveling was even less welcome to Voldemort; however, he rallied almost at once.

 

"You are omniscient as ever, Dumbledore."

 

"Oh no, merely friendly with the local barmen," said Dumbledore lightly. "Now, Tom . . ."

 

Dumbledore set down his empty glass and drew himself up in his seat, the tips of his fingers together in a very characteristic gesture.

 

"Let us speak openly. Why have you come here tonight, surrounded by henchmen, to request a job we both know you do not want?"

 

Voldemort looked coldly surprised. "A job I do not want? On the contrary, Dumbledore, I want it very much."

 

"Oh, you want to come back to Hogwarts, but you do not want to teach any more than you wanted to when you were eighteen. What is it you're after, Tom? Why not try an open request for once?"

 

Voldemort sneered. "If you do not want to give me a job —"

 

"Of course I don't," said Dumbledore. "And I don't think for a moment you expected me to. Nevertheless, you came here, you asked, you must have had a purpose."

 

Voldemort stood up. He looked less like Tom Riddle than ever, his features thick with rage. "This is your final word?"

 

"It is," said Dumbledore, also standing.

 

"Then we have nothing more to say to each other."

 

"No, nothing," said Dumbledore, and a great sadness filled his face. "The time is long gone when I could frighten you with a burning wardrobe and force you to make repayment for your crimes. But I wish I could, Tom. ... I wish I could. . . ."

 

For a second, Harry was on the verge of shouting a pointless warning: He was sure that Voldemort's hand had twitched toward his pocket and his wand; but then the moment had passed, Voldemort had turned away, the door was closing, and he was gone.

 

Harry felt Dumbledore's hand close over his arm again and moments later, they were standing together on almost the same spot, but there was no snow building on the window ledge, and Dumbledore's hand was blackened and dead-looking once more.

 

"Why?" said Harry at once, looking up into Dumbledore's face. "Why did he come back? Did you ever find out?"

 

"I have ideas," said Dumbledore, "but no more than that."

 

"What ideas, sir?"

 

"I shall tell you, Harry, when you have retrieved that memory from Professor Slughorn," said Dumbledore.

 

"When you have that last piece of the jigsaw, everything will, I hope, be clear ... to both of us."

 

Harry was still burning with curiosity and even though Dumbledore had walked to the door and was holding it open for him, he did not move at once.

 

"Was he after the Defense Against the Dark Arts job again, sir? He didn't say. ..."

 

"Oh, he definitely wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts job," said Dumbledore. "The aftermath of our little meeting proved that. You see, we have never been able to keep a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for longer than a year since I refused the post to Lord Voldemort."

Chapter 21: The Unknowable Room

 

Harry wracked his brains over the next week as to how he was to persuade Slughorn to hand over the true memory, but nothing in the nature of a brain wave occurred and he was reduced to doing what he did increasingly these days when at a loss: poring over his Potions book, hoping that the Prince would have scribbled something useful in a margin, as he had done so many times before.

 

"You won't find anything in there," said Hermione firmly, late on Sunday evening.

 

"Don't start, Hermione," said Harry. "If it hadn't been for the Prince, Ron wouldn't be sitting here now."

 

"He would if you'd just listened to Snape in our first year," said Hermione dismissively.

 

Harry ignored her. He had just found an incantation “Sectum-sempra!" scrawled in a margin above the intriguing words "For enemies," and was itching to try it out, but thought it best not to in front of Hermione. Instead, he surreptitiously folded down the corner of the page. They were sitting beside the fire in the common room; the only other people awake were fellow sixth years. There had been a cer-tain amount of excitement earlier when they had come back from dinner to find a new sign on the notice board that announced the date for their Apparition Test. Those who would be seventeen on or before the first test date, the twenty-first of April, had the option of signing up for additional practice sessions, which would take place (heavily supervised) in Hogsmeade.

 

Ron had panicked on reading this notice; he had still not man-aged to Apparate and feared he would not be ready for the test. Hermione, who had now achieved Apparition twice, was a little more confident, but Harry, who would not be seventeen for an-other four months, could not take the test whether ready or not.

 

"At least you can Apparate, though!" said Ron tensely. "You'll have no trouble come July!"

 

"I've only done it once," Harry reminded him; he had finally managed to disappear and rematerialize inside his hoop during their previous lesson.

 

Having wasted a lot of time worrying aloud about Apparition, Ron was now struggling to finish a viciously difficult essay for Snape that Harry and Hermione had already completed. Harry fully expected to receive low marks on his, because he had disagreed with Snape on the best way to tackle dementors, but he did not care: Slughorns memory was the most important thing to him now.

 

"I'm telling you, the stupid Prince isn't going to be able to help you with this, Harry!" said Hermione, more loudly. "There's only one way to force someone to do what you want, and that's the Imperius Curse, which is illegal —"

 

"Yeah, I know that, thanks," said Harry, not looking up from the book. "That's why I'm looking for something different. Dumbledorf says Veritaserum won't do it, but there might be something else, a potion or a spell. . . ."

 

"You're going about it the wrong way," said Hermione. "Only you can get the memory, Dumbledore says. That must mean you can persuade Slughorn where other people can’t. It's not a question of slipping him a potion, anyone could do that —"

 

"How do you spell 'belligerent'?" said Ron, shaking his quill very hard while staring at his parchment. "It can't be B — U — M —"

 

"No, it isn't," said Hermione, pulling Ron's essay toward her. "And 'augury' doesn't begin O — R — G either. What kind of quill are you using?"

 

"It's one of Fred and George's Spell-Check ones, but I think the charm must be wearing off."

 

"Yes, it must," said Hermione, pointing at the title of his essay, "because we were asked how we'd deal with dementors, not 'Dug-bogs', and I don't remember you changing your name to 'Roonil Wazlib’ either."

 

"Ah no!" said Ron, staring horror-struck at the parchment. "Don't say I'll have to write the whole thing out again!"

 

"It's okay, we can fix it," said Hermione, pulling the essay toward her and taking out her wand.

 

"I love you, Hermione," said Ron, sinking back in his chair, rub-bing his eyes wearily. Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, "Don't let Lavender hear you saying that."

 

"1 won't," said Ron into his hands. "Or maybe I will, then she'll ditch me."

 

"Why don't you ditch her if you want to finish it?" asked Harry.

 

"You haven't ever chucked anyone, have you?" said Ron. "You and Cho just —"

 

"Sort of fell apart, yeah," said Harry.

 

"Wish that would happen with me and Lavender," said Ron gloomily, watching Hermione silently tapping each of his mis-spelled words with the end of her wand, so that they corrected themselves on the page. "But the more I hint I want to finish it, the tighter she holds on. It's like going out with the giant squid."

 

"There," said Hermione, some twenty minutes later, handing back Ron's essay.

 

"Thanks a million," said Ron. "Can I borrow your quill for the conclusion?" Harry, who had found nothing useful in the Half-Blood Prince's notes so far, looked around; the three of them were now the only ones left in the common room, Seamus having just gone up to bed cursing Snape and his essay. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and Ron scratching out one last paragraph on dementors using Hermione's quill. Harry had just closed the Half-Blood Prince's book, yawning, when —

 

Crack!

 

Hermione let out a little shriek; Ron spilled ink all over his freshly completed essay, and Harry said, "Kreacher!"

 

The house-elf bowed low and addressed his own gnarled toes. "Master said he wanted regular reports on what the Malfoy boy is doing, so Kreacher has come to give-"

 

Crack!

 

Dobby appeared alongside Kreacher, his tea-cozy hat askew. "Dobby has been helping too, Harry Potter!" he squeaked, cast-ing Kreacher a resentful look. "And Kreacher ought to tell Dobby when he is coming to see Harry Potter so they can make their re-ports together!"

 

"What is this?" asked Hermione, still looking shocked by these sudden appearances. "What's going on, Harry?" Harry hesitated before answering, because he had not told Her-mione about setting Kreacher and Dobby to tail Malfoy; house-elves were always such a touchy subject with her.

 

"Well. . . they've been following Malfoy for me," he said.

 

"Night and day," croaked Kreacher.

 

"Dobby has not slept for a week, Harry Potter!" said Dobby proudly, swaying where he stood. Hermione looked indignant.

 

"You haven't slept, Dobby? But surely, Harry, you didn't tell him not to —"

 

"No, of course I didn't," said Harry quickly. "Dobby, you can sleep, all right? But has either of you found out anything?" he has-tened to ask, before Hermione could intervene again.

 

"Master Malfoy moves with a nobility that befits his pure blood," croaked Kreacher at once. "His features recall the fine bones of my mistress and his manners are those of—"

 

"Draco Malfoy is a bad boy!" squeaked Dobby angrily. "A bad boy who — who —" He shuddered from the tassel of his tea cozy to the toes of his socks and then ran at the fire, as though about to dive into it. Harry, to whom this was not entirely unexpected, caught him around the middle and held him fast. For a few seconds Dobby struggled, then went limp.

 

"Thank you, Harry Potter," he panted. "Dobby still finds it dif-ficult to speak ill of his old masters." Harry released him; Dobby straightened his tea cozy and said defiantly to Kreacher, "But Kreacher should know that Draco Malfoy is not a good master to a house-elf!"

 

"Yeah, we don't need to hear about you being in love with Malfoy," Harry told Kreacher. "Let's fast forward to where he's actually been going."

 

Kreacher bowed again, looking furious, and then said, "Master Malfoy eats in the Great Hall, he sleeps in a dormitory in the dun-geons, he attends his classes in a variety of—"

 

"Dobby, you tell me," said Harry, cutting across Kreacher. "Has he been going anywhere he shouldn't have?"

 

"Harry Potter, sir," squeaked Dobby, his great orblike eyes shining in the firelight, "the Malfoy boy is breaking no rules that Dobby can discover, but he is still keen to avoid detection. He has been making regular visits to the seventh floor with a variety of other students, who keep watch for him while he enters —"

 

"The Room of Requirement!" said Harry, smacking himself hard on the forehead with Advanced Potion-Making. Hermione and Ron stared at him. "That's where he's been sneaking off to! That's where he's doing… whatever he's doing! And I bet that's why he's been disappearing off the map — come to think of it, I've never seen the Room of Requirement on there!"

 

"Maybe the Marauders never knew the room was there," said Ron.

 

"I think it'll be part of the magic of the room," said Hermione. "If you need it to be unplottable, it will be."

 

"Dobby, have you managed to get in to have a look at what Malfoy's doing?" said Harry eagerly.

 

"No, Harry Potter, that is impossible," said Dobby.

 

"No, it's not," said Harry at once. "Malfoy got into our head-quarters there last year, so I'll be able to get in and spy on him, no problem."

 

"But I don't think you will, Harry," said Hermione slowly. "Mal-foy already knew exactly how we were using the room, didn't he, because that stupid Marietta had blabbed. He needed the room to become the headquarters of the D.A., so it did. But you don't know what the room becomes when Malfoy goes in there, so you don't know what to ask it to transform into."

 

"There'll be a way around that," said Harry dismissively. "You've done brilliantly, Dobby."

 

"Kreachers done well too," said Hermione kindly; but far from looking grateful, Kreacher averted his huge, bloodshot eyes and croaked at the ceiling, "The Mudblood is speaking to Kreacher, Kreacher will pretend he cannot hear —"

 

"Get out of it," Harry snapped at him, and Kreacher made one last deep bow and Disapparated. "You'd better go and get some sleep too, Dobby."

 

"Thank you, Harry Potter, sir!" squeaked Dobby happily, and he too vanished.

 

"How good is this?" said Harry enthusiastically, turning to Ron and Hermione the moment the room was elf-free again. "We know where Malfoy's going! We've got him cornered now!"

 

"Yeah, it's great," said Ron glumly, who was attempting to mop up the sodden mass of ink chat had recently been an almost com-pleted essay. Hermione pulled it toward her and began siphoning the ink off with her wand.

 

"But what's all this about him going up there with a variety of students'?" said Hermione. "How many people are in on it? You wouldn't think he'd trust lots of them to know what he's do-ing--"

 

"Yeah, that is weird," said Harry, frowning. "I heard him telling Crabbe it wasn't Crabbe's business what he was doing... so what's he telling all these... all these..." Harry's voice tailed away; he was staring at the fire. "God, I've been stupid," he said quietly. "Its obvious, isn't it? There was a great vat of it down in the dungeon. . . . He could’ve nicked some any time during that lesson. . . ."

 

"Nicked what?" said Ron.

 

"Polyjuice Potion. He stole some of the Polyjuice Potion Slug-horn showed us in our first Potions lesson… There aren't a whole variety of students standing guard for Malfoy… it's just Crabbe and Goyle as usual. …Yeah, it all fits!" said Harry, jumping up and starting to pace in front of the fire. "They're stupid enough to do what they're told even if he won't tell them what he's up to, but he doesn't want them to be seen lurking around outside the Room of Requirement, so he's got them taking Polyjuice to make them look like other people… Those two girls I saw him with when he missed Quidditch — ha! Crabbe and Goyle!"

 

“Do you mean to say," said Hermione in a hushed voice, "that that little girl whose scales I repaired — ?"

 

"Yeah, of course!" said Harry loudly, staring at her. "Of course! Malfoy must've been inside the room at the time, so she — what am I talking about? — he dropped the scales to tell Malfoy not to corne out, because there was someone there! And there was that girl who dropped the toadspawn too! We've been walking past him all the time and not realizing it!"

 

"He's got Crabbe and Goyle transforming into girls?" guffawed Ron. "Blimey… no wonder they don't look too happy these days. I'm surprised they don't tell him to stuff it."

 

"Well, they wouldn't, would they, if he's shown them his Dark Mark?" said Harry.

 

"Hmmm... the Dark Mark we don't know exists," said Hermi-one skeptically, rolling up Ron's dried essay before it could come to any more harm and handing it to him.

 

"We'll see” said Harry confidently.

 

"Yes, we will," Hermione said, getting to her feet and stretching. "But, Harry, before you get all excited, I still don't think you'll be able to get into the Room of Requirement without knowing what's there first'. And I don't think you should forget" — she heaved her bag onto her shoulder and gave him a very serious look — "that what you're supposed to be concentrating on is getting that memory from Slughorn. Good night."

 

Harry watched her go, feeling slightly disgruntled. Once the door to the girls' dormitories had closed behind her he rounded on Ron. "What d'you think?"

 

"Wish I could Disapparate like a house-elf," said Ron, staring at the spot where Dobby had vanished. "I'd have that Apparition Test in the bag."

 

Harry did not sleep well that night. He lay awake for what felt like hours, wondering how Malfoy was using the Room of Requirement and what he, Harry, would see when he went in there the following day, for whatever Hermione said, Harry was sure that if Malfoy had-=- been able to see the headquarters of the D.A., he would be able to see Malfoy's, what could it be? A meeting place? A hideout? A ston room? A workshop? Harrys mind worked feverishly and his dreams, when he finally fell asleep, were broken and disturbed by images of Malfoy, who turned into Slughorn, who turned into Snape…

 

Harry was in a state of great anticipation over breakfast the following morning; he had a free period before Defense Against the Dark Arts and was determined to spend it trying to get into the Room of Requirement. Hermione was rather ostentatiously showing no interest in his whispered plans for forcing entry into the room, which irritated Harry, because he thought she might be a lot of help if she wanted to.

 

"Look," he said quietly, leaning forward and putting a hand on the Daily Prophet, which she had just removed from a post owl, to stop her from opening it and vanishing behind it. "I haven't for-gotten about Slughorn, but I haven't got a clue how to get that memory off him, and until I get a brain wave why shouldn't I find out what Malfoy's doing?"

 

"I've already told you, you need to persuade Slughorn," said Her-mione. "It's not a question of tricking him or bewitching him, or Dumbledore could have done it in a second. Instead of messing around outside the Room of Requirement" — she jerked the Prophet out from under Harrys hand and unfolded it to look at the front page — "you should go and find Slughorn and start appeal-ing to his better nature."

 

"Anyone we know — ?" asked Ron, as Hermione scanned the headlines.

 

"Yes!" said Hermione, causing both Harry and Ron to gag on their breakfast. "But it's all right, he's not dead — its Mundungus, he's been arrested and sent to Azkaban! Something to do with impersonating an Inferius during an attempted burglary, and someone called Octavius Pepper has vanished. Oh, and how horrible, a nine-year-old boy has been arrested for trying to kill his grandparents, they think he was under the Imperius Curse."

 

They finished their breakfast in silence. Hermione set off imme-diately for Ancient Runes; Ron for the common room, where he still had to finish his conclusion on Snape's dementor essay, and Harry for the corridor on the seventh floor and the stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls to do ballet.

 

Harry slipped on his Invisibility Cloak once he had found an empty passage, but he need not have bothered. When he reached his destination he found it deserted. Harry was not sure whether his chances of getting inside the room were better with Malfoy in-side it or out, but at least his first attempt was not going to be complicated by the presence of Crabbe or Goyle pretending to be an eleven-year-old girl.

 

He closed his eyes as he approached the place where the Room of Requirement's door was concealed. He knew what he had to do; he had become most accomplished at it last year. Concentrating with all his might he thought, “I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here... I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here... I need to see what Malfoy's doing in here...”

 

Three times he walked past the door; then, his heart pounding with excitement, he opened his eyes and faced it — but he was still looking at a stretch of mundanely blank wall. He moved forward and gave it an experimental push. The stone remained solid and unyielding.

 

"Okay," said Harry aloud. "Okay... I thought the wrong thing..." He pondered for a moment then set off again, eyes closed, con-centrating as hard as he could. “I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly... I need to see the place where Malfoy keeps coming secretly...” After three walks past, he opened his eyes expectantly.

 

There was no door.

 

"Oh, come off it," he told the wall irritably. "That was a clear instruction. Fine." He thought hard for several minutes before striding off once more. “I need you to become the place you become for Draco Malfoy...”

 

He did not immediately open his eyes when he had finished his patrolling; he was listening hard, as though he might hear the door pop into existence. He heard nothing, however, except the distant twittering of birds outside. He opened his eyes.

 

There was still no door.

 

Harry swore. Someone screamed. He looked around to see a gaggle of first years running back around the corner, apparently un-der the impression that they had just encountered a particularly foulmouthed ghost.

 

Harry tried every variation of "I need to see what Draco Malfoy is doing inside you" that he could think of for a whole hour, at the end of which he was forced to concede that Hermione might have had a point: The room simply did not want to open for him. Frus-trated and annoyed, he set off for Defense Against the Dark Arts, pulling off his Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his bag as he went.

 

"Late again, Potter," said Snape coldly, as Harry hurried into the candlelit classroom. "Ten points from Gryfrindor." Harry scowled at Snape as he flung himself into the seat beside Ron. Half the class were still on their feet, taking out books and orga-nizing their things; he could not be much later than any of them.

 

"Before we start, I want your dementor essays," said Snape, wav-ing his wand carelessly, so that twenty-five scrolls of parchment soared into the air and landed in a neat pile on his desk. "And I hope for your sakes they are better than the tripe I had to endure on resisting the Imperius Curse. Now, if you will all open your books to page — what is it, Mr. Finnigan?"

 

"Sir," said Seamus, "I've been wondering, how do you tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost? Because there was something in the paper about an Inferius —"

 

"No, there wasn't," said Snape in a bored voice.

 

"But sir, I heard people talking —"

 

"If you had actually read the article in question, Mr. Finnigan, you would have known that the so-called Inferius was nothing but a smelly sneak thief by the name of Mundungus Fletcher."

 

"I thought Snape and Mundungus were on the same side," mut-tered Harry to Ron and Hermione. "Shouldn't he be upset Mun-dungus has been arrest —"

 

"But Potter seems to have a lot to say on the subject," said Snape, pointing suddenly at the back of the room, his black eyes fixed on Harry. "Let us ask Potter how we would tell the difference between an Inferius and a ghost."

 

The whole class looked around at Harry, who hastily tried to recall what Dumbledore had told him the night that they had gone to visit Slughorn. "Er — well — ghosts are transparent —" he said.

 

"Oh, very good," interrupted Snape, his lip curling. "Yes, it in easy to see that nearly six years of magical education have not been wasted on you, Potter. 'Ghosts are transparent."'

 

Pansy Parkinson let out a high-pitched giggle. Several other peo-ple were smirking. Harry took a deep breath and continued calmly, though his insides were boiling, "Yeah, ghosts are transparent, but Inferi are dead bodies, aren't they? So they'd be solid —"

 

"A five-year-old could have told us as much," sneered Snape. "The Inferius is a corpse that has been reanimated by a Dark wiz-ard's spells. It is not alive, it is merely used like a puppet to do the wizard's bidding. A ghost, as I trust that you are all aware by now, is the imprint of a departed soul left upon the earth, and of course, as Potter so wisely tells us, transparent. "

 

"Well, what Harry said is the most useful if we're trying to tell them apart!" said Ron. "When we come face-to-face with one down a dark alley, we're going to be having a look to see if its solid, aren't we, we're not going to be asking, 'Excuse me, are you the imprint of a departed soul?'" There was a ripple of laughter, instantly quelled by the look Snape gave the class.

 

"Another ten points from Gryffindor," said Snape. "I would ex-pect nothing more sophisticated from you, Ronald Weasley, the boy so solid he cannot Apparate half an inch across a room."

 

"No!" whispered Hermione, grabbing Harrys arm as he opened his mouth furiously. "There's no point, you'll just end up in deten-tion again, leave it!"

 

"Now open your books to page two hundred and thirteen," said Snape, smirking a little, "and read the first two paragraphs on the Cruciatus Curse."

 

Ron was very subdued all through the class. When the bell sounded at the end of the lesson, Lavender caught up with Ron and Harry (Hermione mysteriously melted out of sight as she ap-proached) and abused Snape hotly for his jibe about Ron's Appari-tion, but this seemed to merely irritate Ron, and he shook her off by making a detour into the boys' bathroom with Harry.

 

"Snape's right, though, isn't he?" said Ron, after staring into a cracked mirror for a minute or two. "I dunno whether it's worth me taking the test. I just can't get the hang of Apparition."

 

"You might as well do the extra practice sessions in Hogsmeade and see where they get you," said Harry reasonably. "It'll be more interesting than trying to get into a stupid hoop anyway. Then, if you're still not — you know — as good as you'd like to be, you can postpone the test, do it with me over the summer — Myrtle, this is the boys' bathroom!"

 

The ghost of a girl had risen out of the toilet in a cubicle behind them and was now floating in midair, staring at them through thick, white, round glasses. "Oh," she said glumly. "It's you two."

 

"Who were you expecting?" said Ron, looking at her in the mirror.

 

"Nobody," said Myrtle, picking moodily at a spot on her chin. "He said he'd come back and see me, but then you said you'd pop in and visit me too" — she gave Harry a reproachful look — "and I haven't seen you for months and months. I've learned not to ex-pect too much from boys."

 

"I thought you lived in that girls' bathroom?" said Harry, who had been careful to give the place a wide berth for some years now.

 

"I do," she said, with a sulky little shrug, "but that doesn't mean I cant visit other places. I came and saw you in your bath once, remember?"

 

"Vividly," said Harry.

 

"But I thought he liked me," she said plaintively. "Maybe if you two left, he'd come back again. We had lots in common. I'm sure he felt it."

 

And she looked hopefully toward the door. "When you say you had lots in common," said Ron, sounding rather amused now, "d'you mean he lives in an S-bend too?"

 

"No," said Myrtle defiantly, her voice echoing loudly around the old tiled bathroom. "I mean he's sensitive, people bully him too, and he feels lonely and hasn't got anybody to talk to, and he's not afraid to show his feelings and cry!"

 

"There's been a boy in here crying?" said Harry curiously. "A young boy?"

 

"Never you mind!" said Myrtle, her small, leaky eyes fixed on Ron, who was now definitely grinning. "I promised I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'll take his secret to the —"

 

"— not the grave, surely?" said Ron with a snort. "The sewers, maybe." Myrtle gave a howl of rage and dived back into the toilet, caus-ing water to slop over the sides and onto the floor. Goading Myrtle seemed to have put fresh heart into Ron. "You're right," he said, swinging his schoolbag back over his shoulder, "I'll do the practice sessions in Hogsmeade before I de-cide about taking the test."

 

And so the following weekend, Ron joined Hermione and the rest of the sixth years who would turn seventeen in time to take the test in a fortnight. Harry felt rather jealous watching them all get ready to go into the village; he missed making trips there, and it was a particularly fine spring day, one of the first clear skies they had seen in a long time. However, he had decided to use the time to attempt another assault on the Room of Requirement.

 

"You'd do better," said Hermione, when he confided this plan to Ron and her in the entrance hall, "to go straight to Slughorn's of-fice and try and get that memory from him."