As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver wings fluttered rather
feebly, and Harry could not help feeling a definite sense of anticlimax.
"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.
"No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to remind me what
you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."
"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"
"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"
"I'm asking the questions," said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little closer to the sofa.
Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows towered ghostly white over
the hedge.
"I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to Harry.
"Why is that?"
Hermione laughed derisively.
"Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too obvious," she
said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the icing!"
"I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," said Scrimgeour, "but a Snitch would be
a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"
Harry shrugged, Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering questions
correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress the urge.
"Because Snitches have flesh memories," she said.
"What?" said Harry and Ron together; both considered Hermione's Quidditch knowledge
negligible.
"Correct," said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is released, not
even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify the first
human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch" -- he held up the tiny golden
ball -- "will remember your touch, Potter.
It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his other
faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for you."
Harry's heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was right. How could he
avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hand in front of the Minister?
"You don't say anything," said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the Snitch
contains?"
"No," said Harry, still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch without really
doing so. If only he knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read Hermione's mind; he could
practically hear her brain whizzing beside him.
"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.
Harry met the Minister's yellow eyes and knew he had no option but to obey. He held out his
hand, and Scrimgeour leaned forward again and place the Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into
Harry's palm.
Nothing happened. As Harry's fingers closed around the Snitch, its tired wings fluttered and
were still. Scrimgeour, Ron, and Hermione continued to gaze avidly at the now partially concealed
ball, as if still hoping it might transform in some way.
"That was dramatic," said Harry coolly. Both Ron and Hermione laughed.
"That's all, then, is it?" asked Hermione, making to raise herself off the sofa.
"Not quite," said Scrimgeour, who looked bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left you a
second bequest, Potter."
"What is it?" asked Harry, excitement rekindling.
Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.
"The sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said. Hermione and Ron both stiffened. Harry looked
around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but Scrimgeour did not pull the sword from the leather
pouch, which in any case looked much too small to contain it.
"So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.
"Unfortunately," said Scrimgeour, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give away. The
sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, belongs--"
"It belongs to Harry!" said Hermione hotly. "It chose him, he was the one who found it, it
came to him out of the Sorting Hat--"
"According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy
Gryffindor," said Scrimgeour. "That does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever
Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his badly shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry.
"Why do you think--?"
"--Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" said Harry, struggling to keep his temper.
"Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."
"This is not a joke, Potter!" growled Scrimgeour. "Was it because Dumbledore believed that
only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish to give you
that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to destroy He-
Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"
"Interesting theory," said Harry. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in Voldemort?
Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time stripping down
Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this is what you've been doing, Minister,
shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying - I was nearly one of them -
Voldemort chased me across three countries, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but there's no word about
any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to cooperate with you!"
"You go too far!" shouted Scrimgeour, standing up: Harry jumped to his feet too.
Scrimgeour limped toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point of his wand; It
singed a hole in Harry's T-shirt like a lit cigarette.
"Oi!" said Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand, but Harry said,
"No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"
"Remembered you're not at school, have you?" said Scrimgeour breathing hard into Harry's
face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence
and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up to a
seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some respect!"
"It's time you earned it." said Harry.
The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door to the sitting room
burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.
"We --- we thought we heard --" began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed at the
sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose.
"-raised voices," panted Mrs. Weasley.
Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he had made in
Harry's T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.
"It - it was nothing," he growled. "I ... regret your attitude," he said, looking Harry full in
the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you - what
Dumbledore - desired. We ought to work together."
"I don't like your methods, Minister," said Harry. "Remember?"
For the second time, he raised his right fist and displayed to Scrimgeour the scar that still
showed white on the back of it, spelling I must not tell lies . Scrimgeour's expression hardened. He
turned away without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. Weasley hurried after him;
Harry heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so she called, "He's gone!"
What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking around at Harry, Ron, and Hermione as
Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.
"To give us what Dumbledore left us," said Harry. "They've only just released the content of
his will."
Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the three objects Scrimgeour had given them
were passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator and The Tales of Beedle
the Bard and lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to pass on the sword, but none of them
could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left Harry an old Snitch. As Mr.
Weasley examined the Deluminator for the third of fourth time, Mrs. Weasley said tentatively,
"Harry, dear, everyone's awfully hungry we didn't like to start without you... Shall I serve dinner
now?"
They all ate rather hurriedly and then after a hasty chorus of "Happy Birthday" and much
gulping of cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to the wedding the following day, but
was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched Burrow, left to set up a tent for himself in a
neighboring field.
"Meet us upstairs," Harry whispered to Hermione, while they helped Mrs. Weasley restore
the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."
Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, and Harry filled Hagrid's mokeskin
purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, apparently worthless though some of
them were the Marauder's Map, the shard of Sirius's enchanted mirror, and R.A.B.'s locket. He
pulled the string tight and slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and
watching its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed inside.
"m___iato," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.
"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" said Ron.
"Times change," said Hermione. "Now, show us that Deluminator."
Ron obliged at once. Holding I up in front of him, he clicked it. The solitary lamp they had
lit went out at once.
"The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved that with
Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."
There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to the ceiling and
illuminated them all once more.
"Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, Dumbledore
invented it himself!"
"I know but, surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help us turn out the
lights!"
"D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine everything he'd
left us?" asked Harry.
"Definitely," said Hermione. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was leaving us these
things, but that will doesn't explain..."
"... why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.
"Well, exactly," said Hermione, now flicking through The Tales of Beedle the Bard. "If
these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd think he'd
have left us know why... unless he thought it was obvious?"
"Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" said Ron. "I always said he was mental. Brilliant and
everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch - what the hell was that about?"
"I've no idea," said Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was so sure
that something was going to happen!"
"Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickened as he raised the Snitch in his fingers. "I wasn't
going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour was I?"
"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.
"The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Don't you remember?"
Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically from Harry to
the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.
"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"
"Exactly," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his mouth to the Snitch.
It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside him: He lowered the
golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.
"Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!" He nearly dropped the Snitch in surprise and
excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth golden surface, where seconds
before there had been nothing, were five words written in the thin, slanted handwriting that Harry
recognized as Dumbledore's
I open at the close.
He had barely read them when the words vanished again.
"I open at the close...." What's that supposed to mean?"
Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.
"I open at the close... at the close... I open at the close..."
But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different inflections, they were
unable to wring any more meaning from them.
"And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their attempts to divine
meaning in the Snitch's inscription.
"Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"
"And why couldn't he just have told me?" Harry said quietly. "I was there, it was right there
on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have it, why didn't he just
give it to me then?"
He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he ought to have been
able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and unresponsive. Was there something he had missed
in the long talks with Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all meant? Had Dumbledore
expected him to understand?
"And as for this book." Said Hermione, "The Tales of Beedle the Bard ... I've never even
heard of them!"
"You've never heard of The Tales of Beedle the Bard?" said Ron incredulously. "You're
kidding, right?"
"No, I'm not," said Hermione in surprise. "Do you know them then?"
"Well, of course I do!"
Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that Hermione had
not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their surprise.
"Oh come on! All the old kids' stories are supposed to be Beedle's aren't they? 'The Fountain
of Fair Fortune' ... 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot'... 'Babbitty Rabbitty and her Cackling
Stump'..."
"Excuse me?" said Hermione giggling. "What was the last one?"
"Come off it!" said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. "You must've heard
of Babbitty Rabbitty -"
"Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles!" said Hermione. "We
didn't hear stories like that when we were little, we heard 'Snow White and the Seven Dwarves' and
'Cinderella' -"
"What's that, an illness?" asked Ron.
"So these are children's stories?" asked Hermione, bending against over the runes.
"Yeah." Said Ron uncertainly. "I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all these old
stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they're like in the original versions."
"But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?"
Something cracked downstairs.
"Probably just Charlie, now Mum's asleep, sneaking off to regrow his hair," said Ron
nervously.
"All the same, we should get to bed," whispered Hermione. "It wouldn't do to oversleep
tomorrow."
"No," agreed Ron. "A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom's mother might put a bit of
damper on the wedding. I'll get the light."
And he clicked the Deluminator once more as Hermione left the room.
Chapter Eight
The Wedding
Three o'clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing
outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding guests. Harry
had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a redheaded Muggle boy
from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had stolen hairs using a Summoning
Charm. The plan was to introduce Harry as "Cousin Barny" and trust to the great number of
Weasley relatives to camouflage him.
All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help show people to the right seats.
A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and
all of these wizards were currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue
haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the marquee revealed rows
and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a long purple carpet. The supporting poles
were entwined with white and gold flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of
golden balloons over the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife.
Outside, b___erflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. Harry was rather
uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was affecting was slightly fatter than him
and his dress robes felt hot and tight in the full glare of a summer's day.
"When I get married," said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, "I won't be
bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I'll put a full Body Bird
Curse on Mum until it's all over."
"She wasn't too bad this morning, considering," said George. "Cried a bit about Percy not being
here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look."
Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the distant boundary of the
yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which began to snake its way up through the garden
toward the marquee. Exotic flowers and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches' hats, while
precious gems glittered from many of the wizards' cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew louder
and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the tent.
"Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins," said George, craning his neck for a better look.
"They'll need help understanding our English customs, I'll look after them...."
"Not so fast, Your Holeyness," said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged witches
heading for the procession, he said, "Here - permetiez moi to a__ister vous," to a pair of pretty
French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to deal with the
middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley's old Ministry-colleague Perkins, while a
rather deaf old couple fell to Harry's lot.
"Wotcher," said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks and Lupin at
the front of the queue. She had turned blonde for the occasion. "Arthur told us you were the one
with the curly hair. Sorry about last night," she added
in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. "The Ministry's being very anti-werewolf at the
museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors."
"It's fine, I understand," said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. Lupin gave him a swift
smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin's face fall again into lines of misery. He did not
understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of
disruption. Having misunderstood Fred's directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically
enlarged and reinforced seat set aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a
large pile of golden matchsticks.
While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to anybody who would
listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron face-to-face with a most eccentric-looking
wizard. Slightly cross-eyed, with shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap
whose tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of egg-yolk yellow.
An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a golden chain around his neck.
"Xenophilius Lovegood," he said, extending a hand to Harry, "my daughter and I live just over the
hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my Luna?" he added to Ron.
"Yes," said Ron. "Isn't she with you?"
"She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a glorious infestation!
How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise little gnomes - or, to give them
their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi."
"Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words," said Ron, "but I think Fred and George taught them
those."
He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.
"Hello, Harry!" she said.
"Er - my name's Barry," said Harry, flummoxed.
"Oh, have you changed that too?" she asked brightly.
"How did you know -?"
"Oh, just your expression," she said.
Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had accessorized with a large
sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the brightness of it all, the general effect was quite
pleasant. At least there were no radishes dangling from her ears.
Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the exchange
between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, who held up her
finger and said, "Daddy, look - one of the gnomes actually bit me."
"How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial." Said Mr. Lovegood, seizing Luna's
outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. "Luna, my love, if you should feel
any burgeoning talent today - perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims in Mermish
- do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!"
Ron, passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.
"Ron can laugh," said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their seats, "but my
father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic."
"Really?" said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her father's peculiar
views. "Are you sure you don't want to put anything on that bite, though?"
"Oh, it's fine," said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry up and down.
"You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he believes you
ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know."
As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch clutching his arm. Her
beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.
"...and your hair's much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were Ginevra. Merlin's
beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. And who are you?" she
barked at Harry.
"Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny."
"Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn't Harry Potter here? I was hoping to meet him. I
thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been boasting?"
"No - he couldn't come -"
"Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. I've just
been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara," she shouted at Harry. "Goblin-made, you
know, and been in my family for centuries. She's a good-looking girl, but still - French. Well, well,
find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not to be on my feet too long."
Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for some time. When next
they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more people to their places. The Marquee was
nearly full now and for the first time there was no queue outside.
"Nightmare, Muriel is," said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. "She used to come for
Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a
Dungbomb under her chair at diner. Dad always says she'll have written them out of her will - like
they care, they're going to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they're going... Wow," he
added, blinking rather rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. "You look great!"
"Always the tone of surprise," said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a floaty, lilaccolored
dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny. "Your Great-Aunt Muriel
doesn't agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She said, 'Oh dear, is this
the Muggle-born?' and then, 'Bad posture and skinny ankles.'"
"Don't take it personally, she's rude to everyone," said Ron.
"Talking about Muriel?" inquired George, reemerging from the marquee with Fred. "Yeah, she's
just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still with us, though; he was
a right laugh at weddings."
"Wasn't he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?" asked Hermione.
"Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end," conceded George.
"But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party," said Fred. "He used to down an
entire bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor, hoist up his robes, and start pulling
bunches of flowers out of his -"
"Yes, he sounds a real charmer," said Hermione, while Harry roared with laughter.
"Never married, for some reason," said Ron.
"You amaze me," said Hermione.
They were all laughing so much that none of them noticed the latecomer, a dark-haired young man
with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until he held out his invitation to Ron and said,
with his eyes on Hermione, "You look vunderful."
"Viktor!" she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded bag, which made a loud thump quite
disproportionate to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up, she said "I didn't know you
were - goodness - it's lovely to see - how are you?"
Ron's ears had turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum's invitation as if he did not believe a
word of it, he said, much too loudly, "how come you're here?"
"Fleur invited me," said Krum, eyebrows raised.
Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook hands; then feeling that it would be prudent to
remove Krum from Ron's vicinity, offered to show him his seat.
"Your friend is not pleased to see me," said Krum, as they entered the now packed marquee. "Or is
he a relative?" he added with a glance at Harry's red curly hair.
"Cousin." Harry muttered, but Krum was not really listening. His appearance was causing a stir,
particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was, after all, a famous Quidditch player. While people
were still craning their necks to get a good look at him, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George came
hurrying down the aisle.
"Time to sit down," Fred told Harry, "or we're going to get run over by the bride."
Harry, Ron and Hermione took their seats in the second row behind Fred and George. Hermione
looked rather pink and Ron's ears were still scarlet. After a few moments he muttered to Harry,
"Did you see he's grown a stupid little beard?"
Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.
A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm tent, the general murmuring broken by occasional
spurts of excited laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at
relatives; Mrs. Weasley was wearing a brand-new set of amethyst colored robes with a matching
hat.
A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee, both wearing dress robes,
with larger white roses in their b___onholes; Fred wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of
giggling from the veela cousins. Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled from what seemed to
be the golden balloons.
"Ooooh!" said Hermione, swiveling around in her seat to look at the entrance.
A great collective sigh issued from the a__embled witches and wizards as Monsieur Delacour and
Fleur came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur
was wearing a very simple white dress and seemed to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her
radiance usually dimmed everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon.
Ginny and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual and once Fleur
had reached for him, Bill did not look as though he had ever met Fenrit Greyback.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said a slightly singsong voice, and with a slight shock, Harry saw the same
small, tufty-hired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore's funeral, now standing in front of Bill
and Fleur. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."
"Yes, my tiara set off the whole thing nicely," said Auntie Muriel in a rather carrying whisper. "But
I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low cut."
Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry, then quickly faced the front again. Harry's mind
wandered a long way from the marquee, back to the afternoons spent alone with Ginny in lonely
parts of the school grounds. They seemed so long ago; they had always seemed too good to be true,
as though he had been stealing shining hours from a normal person's life, a person without a
lightning-shaped scar on his forehead....
"Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?"
In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour were both sobbing quietly into scraps of lace.
Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of
his own tablecloth-sized handkerchiefs. Hermione turned around and beamed at Harry; her eyes too
were full of tears.
"...then I declare you bonded for life."
The tufty-haired wizard waved his hand high over the heads of Bill and Fleur and a shower of silver
stars fell upon them, spiraling around their now entwined figures. As Fred and George led a round
of applause, the golden balloons overhead burst. Birds of paradise and tiny golden bells flew and
floated out of them, adding their songs and chimes to the din.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" called the tufty-haired wizard. "If you would please stand up!"
They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wand again. The scars on which
they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so
that they stood beneath a canopy supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit
orchard and surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from the center of the tent
to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs grouped themselves around small, whiteclothed
tables, which all floated gracefully back to earth round it, and the golden-jacketed hand
trooped toward a podium.
"Smooth," said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped up on all sides, some hearing silver trays of
pumpkin juice, b___erbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering piles of tarts and sandwiches.
"We should go and congratulate them!" said Hermione, standing on tiptoe to see the place where
Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.
"We'll have time later," shrugged Ron, s_____ing three b___erbeers from a passing tray and handing
one to Harry. "Hermione, cop hold, let's grab a table.... Not there! Nowhere near Muriel -"
Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as he went; Harry felt sure
that he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time they had reached the other side of the
marquee, most of the tables were occupied: The emptiest was the one where Luna sat alone.
"All right if we join you?" asked Ron.
"Oh yes," she said happily. "Daddy's just gone to give Bill and Fleur our present."
"What is it, a lifetime's supply of Gurdyroots?" asked Ron.
Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but caught Harry instead. Eyes watering in pain,
Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.
The band had begun to play, Bill and Fleur took to the dance floor first, to great applause; after a
while, Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the floor, followed by Mr. Weasley and Fleur's
father.
"I like this song," said Luna, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and a few seconds later she
stood up and glided onto the dance floor, where she revolved on the spot, quite alone, eyes closed
and waving her arms.
"She's great isn't she?" said Ron admiringly. "Always good value."
But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor Krum had dropped into Luna's vacant seat.
Hermione looked pleasurably flustered but this time Krum had not come to compliment her. With a
scowl on his face he said, "Who is that man in the yellow?"
"That's Xenophilius Lovegood, he's the father of a friend of ours," said Ron. His pugnacious tone
indicated that they were not about to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear provocation. "Come
and dance," he added abruptly to Hermione.
She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up. They vanished together into the growing
throng on the dance floor.
"Ah, they are together now?" asked Krum, momentarily distracted.
"Er - sort of," said Harry.
"Who are you?" Krum asked.
"Barny Weasley."
They shook hands.
"You, Barny - you know this man Lovegood well?"
"No, I only met him today. Why?"
Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching Xenophilius, who was chatting to several
warlocks on the other side of the dance floor.
"Because," said Krum, "If he vus not a guest of Fleur's I vould dud him, here and now, for veering
that filthy sign upon his chest."
"Sign?" said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too. The strange triangular eye was gleaming on
his chest. "Why? What's wrong with it?"
"Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald's sign."
"Grindelwald... the Dark wizard Dumbledore defeated?"
"Exactly."
Krum's jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, then he said, "Grindelvald killed many people,
my grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never powerful in this country, they said he feared
Dumbledore - and rightly, seeing how he vos finished. But this" - he pointed a finger at
Xenophilius - "this is his symbol, I recognized it at vunce: Grindelvald carved it into a vall at
Durmstrang ver he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and clothes thinking to
shock, make themselves impressive - until those of us who had lost family members to Grindelvald
taught them better."
Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered at Xenophilius. Harry felt perplexed. It
seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna's father was a supporter of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in
the tent seemed to have recognized the triangular, finlike shape.
"Are you - er - quite sure it's Grindelwald's -?"
"I am not mistaken," said Krum coldly. "I walked past that sign for several years, I know it vell."
"Well, there's a chance," said Harry, "that Xenophilius doesn't actually know what the symbol
means, the Lovegoods are quite... unusual. He could have easily picked it up somewhere and think
it's a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or something."
"The cross section of a vot?"
"Well, I don't know what they are, but apparently he and his daughter go on holiday looking for
them...."
Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna and her father.
"That's her," he said, pointing at Luna, who was still dancing alone, waving her arms around her
head like someone attempting to beat off midges.
"Vy is she doing that?" asked Krum.
"Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt," said Harry, who recognized the symptoms.
Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He drew his hand from
inside his robe and tapped it menacingly on his thighs; sparks flew out of the end.
"Gregorovitch!" said Harry loudly, and Krum started, but Harry was too excited to care; the
memory had come back to him at the sight of Krum's wand: Ollivander taking it and examining it
carefully before the Triwizard Tournament.
"Vot about him?" asked Krum suspiciously.
"He's a wandmaker!"
"I know that," said Krum.
"He made your wand! That's why I thought - Quidditch -"
Krum was looking more and more suspicious.
"How do you know Gregorovitch made my wand?"
"I...I read it somewhere, I think," said Harry. "In a - a fan magazine," he improvised wildly and
Krum looked mollified.
"I had not realized I ever discussed my vand with fans," he said.
"So... er... where is Gregorowitch these days?"
Krum looked puzzled.
"He retired several years ago. I was one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch vand. They are the
best -although I know, of course, that your Britons set much store by Ollivander."
Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the dancers, like Krum, but he was thinking hard. So
Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker and Harry did not have to search far for a
reason. It was surely because of what Harry' wand had done on the night that Voldemort pursued
him across the skies. The holly and phoenix feather wand had conquered the borrowed wand, some
thing that Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would Gregorowitch know better? Was he
truly more skilled than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands that Ollivander did not?
"This girl is very nice-looking," Krum said, recalling Harry to his surroundings. Krum was pointing
at Ginny, who had just joined Luna. "She is also a relative of yours?"
"Yeah," said Harry, suddenly irritated, "and she's seeing someone. Jealous type. Big bloke. You
wouldn't want to cross him."
Krum grunted.
"Vot," he said, draining his goblet and getting to his feet again, "is the point of being an
international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?"
And he strode off leaving Harry to take a sandwich from a passing waiter and make his way around
the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but he
was dancing with Hermione out in the middle of the floor. Harry leaned up against one of the
golden pillars and watched Ginny, who was now dancing with Fred and George's friend Lee
Jordan, trying not to feel resentful about the promise he had given Ron.
He had never been to a wedding before, so he could not judge how Wizarding celebrations differed
from Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the latter would not involve a wedding cake
topped with two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake was cut, or bottles of champagne
that floated unsupported through the crowd. As the evening drew in, and moths began to swoop
under the canopy, now lit with floating golden lanterns, the revelry became more and more
uncontained. Fred and George had long since disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur's
cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a squat wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing "Odo the Hero" in
the corner.
Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron's who seemed unsure whether
or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white
hair made him look rather like an aged dandelion clock and was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He
was vaguely familiar: Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realized that this was Elphias Doge,
member of the Order of the Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore's obituary.
Harry approached him.
"May I sit down?"
"Of course, of course," said Doge; he had a rather high-pitched, wheezy voice.
Harry leaned in.
"Mr. Doge, I'm Harry Potter."
Doge gasped.
"My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here, disguised.... I am so glad, so honored!"
In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a goblet of champagne.
"I thought of writing to you," he whispered, "after Dumbledore... the shock... and for you, I am
sure..."
Doge's tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.
"I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet," said Harry. "I didn't realize you knew
Professor Dumbledore so well."
"As well as anyone," said Doge, dabbing his eyes with a napkin. "Certainly I knew him longest, if
you don't count Aberforth - and somehow, people never do seem to count Aberforth."
"Speaking of the Daily Prophet... I don't know whether you saw, Mr. Doge -?"
"Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy."
"Elphias, I don't know whether you saw the interview Rita Skeeter gave about Dumbledore?"
Doge's face flooded with angry color.
"Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture might be a more accurate term, positively pestered
me to talk to her, I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude, called her an interfering trout,
which resulted, as you my have seen, in aspersions cast upon my sanity."
"Well, in that interview," Harry went on, "Rita Skeeter hinted that Professor Dumbledore was
involved in the Dark Arts when he was young."
"Don't believe a word of it!" said Doge at once. "Not a word, Harry! Let nothing tarnish your
memories of Albus Dumbledore!"
Harry looked into Doge's earnest, pained face, and felt, not reassured, but frustrated. Did Doge
really think it was that easy, that Harry could simply choose not to believe? Didn't Doge understand
Harry's need to be sure, to know everything?"
Perhaps Doge suspected Harry's feelings, for he looked concerned and hurried on, "Harry, Rita
Skeeter is a dreadful -"
But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle.
"Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!"
Harry and Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel standing there, the plumes dancing on her hair, a
goblet of champagne in her hand. "She's written a book about Dumbledore, you know!"
"Hello, Muriel," said Doge, "Yes, we were just discussing -"
"You there! Give me your chair, I'm a hundred and seven!"
Another redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his seat, looking alarmed, and Auntie Muriel swung
it around with surprising strength and plopped herself down upon it between Doge and Harry.
"Hello again, Barry or whatever your name is," she said to Harry, "Now what were you saying
about Rita Skeeter, Elphias? You know, she's written a biography of Dumbledore? I can't wait to
read it. I must remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!"
Doge looked stiff and solemn at this but Auntie Muriel drained her goblet and clicked her bony
fingers at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took another large gulp of champagne, belched
and then said, "There's no need to look like a pair of stuffed frogs! Before he became so respected
and respectable and all that tosh, there were some mighty funny rumors about Albus!"
"Ill-informed sniping," said Doge, turning radish-colored again.
"You would say that, Elphias," cackled Auntie Muriel. "I noticed how you skated over the sticky
patches in that obituary of yours!"
"I'm sorry you think so," said Doge, more coldly still. "I a__ure you I was writing from the heart."
"Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I daresay you'll still think he was a saint even if it
does turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!"
"Muriel!" exclaimed Doge.
A chill that had nothing to do with the iced champagne was stealing through Harry's chest.
"What do you mean?" he asked Muriel. "Who said his sister was a Squib? I thought she was ill?"
"Thought wrong, then, didn't you, Barry!" said Auntie Muriel, looking delighted at the effect she
had produced. "Anyway, how could you expect to know anything about it! IT all happened years
and years before you were even thought of, my dear, and the truth is that those of us who were alive
then never knew what really happened. That's why I can't wait to find out what Skeeter's
unearthed! Dumbledore kept that sister of his quiet for a long time!"
"Untrue!" wheezed Doge, "Absolutely untrue!"
"He never told me his sister as a Squib," said Harry, without thinking, still cold inside.
"And why on earth would he tell you?" screeched Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she
attempted to focus upon Harry.
"The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana," began Elphias in a voice stiff with emotion, "is, I
should have thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her death -"
"Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?" squawked Muriel, "Why did half of us never even know
she existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house and held a funeral for her? Where was
saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at Hogwarts, and never
mind what was going on in his own house!"
"What d'you mean, locked in the cellar?" asked Harry. "What is this?"
Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again and answered Harry.
"Dumbledore's mother was a terrifying woman, simply terrifying. Muggle-born, though I heard she
pretended otherwise-"
"She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra was a fine woman," whispered Doge miserably,
but Auntie Muriel ignored him.
"- proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who would have been mortified to produce a
Squib-"
"Ariana was not a Squib!" wheezed Doge.
"So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she never attended Hogwarts!" said Auntie Muriel.
She turned back to Harry. "In our day, Squibs were often hushed up, thought to take it to the
extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and pretending she didn't exist -"
"I tell you, that's not what happened!" said Doge, but Auntie Muriel steamrollered on, still
addressing Harry.
Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools and encouraged to integrate into the Muggle
community... much kinder than trying to find them a place in the Wizarding world, where they
must always be second class, but naturally Kendra Dumbledore wouldn't have dreamed of letting
her daughter go to a Muggle school -"
"Ariana was delicate!" said Doge desperately. "Her health was always too poor to permit her -"
"- to permit her to leave the house?" cackled Muriel. "And yet she was never taken to St. Mungo's
and no Healer was ever summoned to see her!"
"Really, Muriel, how can you possibly know whether -"
"For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot was a Healer at St. Mungo's at the time, and he
told my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had never been seen there. All most suspicious,
Lancelot thought!"
Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel, who seemed to be enjoying herself hugely,
snapped her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry
thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for
the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore's sister suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned
for her lack of magic? And had Dumbledore truly left her to her fate while he went off to Hogwarts
to prove himself brilliant and talented?
"Now, if Kendra hadn't died first," Muriel resumed, "I'd have said that it was she who finished off
Ariana -"
"How can you, Muriel!" groaned Doge. "A mother kill her own daughter? Think what you're
saying!"
"If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on end, why not?"
shrugged Auntie Muriel. "But as I say, it doesn't fit, because Kendra died before Ariana - of what,
nobody ever seemed sure-"
"Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom and killed Kendra in the struggle," said
Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. "Shake your head all you like, Elphias. You were at Ariana's funeral,
were you not?"
"Yes I was," said Doge, through trembling lips," and a more desperately sad occasion I cannot
remember. Albus was heartbroken-"
"His heart wasn't the only thing. Didn't Aberforth break Albus' nose halfway through the service?"
If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was nothing to how he looked now. Muriel might have
stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another swig of champagne, which dribbled down her
chin.
"How do you -?" croaked Doge.
"My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot," said Auntie Muriel happily. "Bathilda
described the whole thing to mother while I was listening at the door. A coffin-side brawl. The way
Bathilda told it, Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus' fault that Ariana was dead and then
punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not even defend himself, and that's odd
enough in itself. Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in a duel with both hands tied behind his
back.
Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of those old scandals seemed to elate her as
much as they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to think, what to believe. He wanted the
truth and yet all Doge did was sit there and bleat feebly that Ariana had been ill. Harry could hardly
believe that Dumbledore would not have intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his own
house, and yet there was undoubtedly something odd about the story.
"And I'll tell you something else," Muriel said, hiccupping slightly as she lowered her goblet. "I
think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in Skeeter's interview about an
important source close to the Dumbledores - goodness knows she was there all through the Ariana
business, and it would fit!"
"Bathilda, would never talk to Rita Skeeter!" whispered Doge.
"Bathilda Bagshot?" Harry said. "The author of A History of Magic?"
The name was printed on the front of one of Harry's textbooks, though admittedly not one of the
ones he had read more attentively.
"Yes," said Doge, clutching at Harry's question like a drowning man at a life heir. "A most gifted
magical historian and an old friend of Albus's."
"Quite gaga these days, I've heard," said Auntie Muriel cheerfully.
"If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of her," said Doge,
"and no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!"
"Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and I'm sure Rita Skeeter knows them all," said
Auntie Muriel "But even if Bathilda's completely cuckoo, I'm sure she'd still have old
photographs, maybe even letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years.... Well worth a trip to
Godric's Hollow, I'd have thought."
Harry, who had been taking a sip of b___erbeer, choked. Doge banged him on the back as Harry
coughed, looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming eyes. Once he had control of his voice again,
he asked, "Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric's Hollow?"
"Oh yes, she's been there forever! The Dumbledores moved there after Percival was imprisoned,
and she was their neighbor."
"The Dumbledores lived in Godric's Hollows?"
"Yes, Barry, that's what I just said," said Auntie Muriel testily.
Harry felt drained, empty. Never once, in six years, had Dumbledore told Harry that they had both
lived and lost loved ones in Godric's Hollow. Why? Were Lily and James buried close to
Dumbledore's mother and sister? Had Dumbledore visited their graves, perhaps walked past Lily's
and James's to do so? And he had never once told Harry ... never bothered to say...
And why it was so important, Harry could not explain even to himself, yet he felt it had been
tantamount to a lie not to tell him that they had this place and these experiences in common. He
stared ahead of him, barely noticing what was going on around him, and did not realize that
Hermione had appeared out of the crowd until she drew up a chair beside him.
"I simply can't dance anymore," she panted, slipping of one of her shoes and rubbing the sole of her
foot. "Ron's gone looking to find more b___erbeers. It's a bit odd. I've just seen Viktor storming
away from Luna's father, it looked like they'd been arguing -" She dropped her voice, staring at
him. "Harry, are you okay?"
Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not matter, at that moment, something large and silver
came falling through the canopy over the dance floor. Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed
lightly in the middle of the astonished dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in
mid-dance. Then the Patronus's mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, deep, slow voice of
Kingsley Shacklebolt.
"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."
Chapter Nine
A Place to Hide
Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione jumped to their feet and drew their
wands. Many people were only just realizing that something strange had happened; heads were still
turning toward the silver cat as it vanished. Silence spread outward in cold ripples from the place
where the Patronus had landed. Then somebody screamed.
Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were sprinting in all
directions; many were Disapparating; the protective enchantments around the Burrow had broken.
"Ron!" Hermione cried. "Ron, where are you?"
As they pushed their way across the dance floor, Harry saw cloaked and masked figures appearing
in the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands raised, and heard both of them shout,
"Protego!", a cry that was echoed on all sides -
"Ron! Ron!" Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffered by terrified guests:
Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren't separated as a streak of light whizzed over their
heads, whether a protective charm or something more sinister he did not know -
And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione's free arm, and Harry felt her turn on the
spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness pressed in upon him; all he could feel was
Hermione's hand as he was squeezed through s___e and time, away from the Burrow, away from
the descending Death Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort himself. . . .
"Where are we?" said Ron's voice.
Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they had not left the wedding after all; They still
seemed to be surrounded by people.
"Tottenham Court Road," panted Hermione. "Walk, just walk, we need to find somewhere for you
to change."
Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up the wide dark street thronged with late-night
revelers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling above them. A double-decker bus rumbled by
and a group of merry pub-goers ogled them as they passed; Harry and Ron were still wearing dress
robes.
"Hermione, we haven't got anything to change into," Ron told her, as a young woman burst into
raucous giggles at the sight of him.
"Why didn't I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?" said Harry, inwardly cursing his
own stupidity. "All last year I kept it on me and -"
"It's okay, I've got the Cloak, I've got clothes for both of you," said Hermione, "Just try and act
naturally until - this will do."
She led them down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.
"When you say you've got the Cloak, and clothes . . ." said Harry, frowning at Hermione, who was
carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which she was now rummaging.
"Yes, they're here," said Hermione, and to Harry and Ron's utter astonishment, she pulled out a
pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and finally the silvery Invisibility Cloak.
"How the ruddy hell - ?"
"Undetectable Extension Charm," said Hermione. "Tricky, but I think I've done it okay; anyway, I
managed to fit everything we need in here." She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it
echoed like a cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. "Oh, d___, that'll be
the books," she said, peering into it, "and I had them all stacked by subject. . . . Oh well. . . . Harry,
you'd better take the Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. . . ."
"When did you do all this?" Harry asked as Ron stripped off his robes.
"I told you at the Burrow, I've had the essentials packed for days, you know, in case we needed to
make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, after you changed, and put it in
here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . ."
"You're amazing, you are," said Ron, handing her his bundled-up robes.
"Thank you," said Hermione, managing a small smile as she pushed the robes into the bag. "Please,
Harry, get that Cloak on!"
Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and pulled it up over his head, vanishing
from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate what had happened.
"The others - everybody at the wedding -"
"We can't worry about that now," whispered Hermione. "It's you they're after, Harry, and we'll
just put everyone in even more danger by going back."
"She's right," said Ron, who seemed to know that Harry was about to argue, even if he could not
see his face. "Most of the Order was there, they'll look after everyone."
Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not see him, and said, "Yeah." But he thought of
Ginny, and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach.
"Come on, I think we ought to keep moving," said Hermione.
They moved back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a group of men on the
opposite side was singing and weaving across the pavement.
"Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?" Ron asked Hermione.
"I've no idea, it just popped into my head, but I'm sure we're safer out in the Muggle world, it's not
where they'll expect us to be."
"True," said Ron, looking around, "but don't you feel a bit - exposed?"
"Where else is there?" asked Hermione, cringing as the men on the other side of the road started
wolf-whistling at her. "We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? And Grimmauld
Place is out if Snape can get in there. . . . I suppose we could try my parents' home, though I think
there's a chance they might check there. . . . Oh, I wish they'd shut up!"
"All right, darling?" the drunkest of the men on the other pavement was yelling. "Fancy a drink?
Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!"
"Let's sit down somewhere," Hermione said hastily as Ron opened his mouth to shout back across
the road. "Look, this will do, in here!"
It was a small and shabby all-night café. A light layer of grease lay on all the Formica-topped
tables, but it was at least empty. Harry slipped into a booth first and Ron sat next to him opposite
Hermione, who had her back to the entrance and did not like it: She glanced over her shoulder so
frequently she appeared to have a twitch. Harry did not like being stationary; walking had given the
illusion that they had a goal. Beneath the Cloak he could feel the last vestiges of Polyjuice leaving
him, his hands returning to their usual length and shape. He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and
put them on again.
After a minute or two, Ron said, "You know, we're not far from the Leaky Cauldron here, it's only
in Charing Cross -"
"Ron, we can't!" said Hermione at once.
"Not to stay there, but to find out what's going on!"
"We know what's going on! Voldemort's taken over the Ministry, what else do we need to know?"
"Okay, okay, it was just an idea!" They relapsed into a p____ly silence. The gum-chewing waitress
shuffled over and Hermione ordered two cappuccinos: As Harry was invisible, it would have looked
odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen entered the café and squeezed into the next booth.
Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper.
"I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once we're there, we could
send a message to the Order."
"Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?" asked Ron.
"I've been practicing and I think so," said Hermione.
"Well, as long as it doesn't get them into trouble, though they might've been arrested already. God,
that's revolting," Ron added after one sip of the foamy, grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she
shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to take the new customers' orders. The larger of the two
workmen, who was blond and quite huge, now that Harry came to look at him, waved her away.
She stared, affronted.
"Let's get going, then, I don't want to drink this muck," said Ron. "Hermione, have you got Muggle
money to pay for this?"
"Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow. I'll bet all the change
is at the bottom," sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded bag.
The two workmen made identical movements, and Harry mirrored them without conscious thought:
All three of them drew their wands. Ron, a few seconds late in realizing what was going on, lunged
across the table, pushing Hermione sideways onto her bench. The force of the Death Eaters' spells
shattered the tiled wall where Ron's head had just been, as Harry, still invisible, yelled, "Stupefy!"
The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a jet of red light: He slumped sideways,
unconscious. His companion, unable to see who had cast the spell, fired another at Ron: Shining
black ropes flew from his wand-tip and bound Ron head to foot - the waitress screamed and ran for
the door - Harry sent another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the twisted face who had tied
up Ron, but the spell missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the waitress, who collapsed in front
of the door.
"Expulso!" bellowed the Death Eater, and the table behind which Harry was standing blew up: The
force of the explosion slammed him into the wall and he felt his wand leave his hand as the Cloak
slipped off him.
"Petrificus Totalus!" screamed Hermione from out of sight, and the Death Eater fell forward like a
statue to land wi

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105
105.75
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