Chapter 30 The Pensieve

The door of the office opened.

“Hello, Potter,” said Moody. “Come in, then.”

Harry walked inside. He had been inside Dumbledore's office once before; it was a very beautiful, circular room, lined with pictures of previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts, all of whom were fast asleep, their chests rising and falling gently.

Cornelius Fudge was standing beside Dumbledore's desk, wearing his usual pinstriped cloak and holding his lime-green bowler hat.

“Harry!” said Fudge jovially, moving forward. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Harry lied.

“We were just talking about the night when Mr. Crouch turned up on the grounds,” said Fudge. “It was you who found him, was it not?”

“Yes,” said Harry. Then, feeling it was pointless to pretend that he hadn't overheard what they had been saying, he added, “I didn't see Madame Maxime anywhere, though, and she'd have a job hiding, wouldn't she?”

Dumbledore smiled at Harry behind Fudge's back, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes, well,” said Fudge, looking embarrassed, “we're about to go for a short walk on the grounds, Harry, if you'll excuse us…perhaps if you just go back to your class -”

“I wanted to talk to you. Professor,” Harry said quickly, looking at Dumbledore, who gave him a swift, searching look.

“Wait here for me, Harry,” he said. “Our examination of the grounds will not take long.”

They trooped out in silence past him and closed the door. After a minute or so, Harry heard the clunks of Moody's wooden leg growing fainter in the corridor below. He looked around.

“Hello, Fawkes,” he said.

Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's phoenix, was standing on his golden perch beside the door. The size of a swan, with magnificent scarlet-and-gold plumage, he swished his long tail and blinked benignly at Harry.

Harry sat down in a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. For several minutes, he sat and watched the old headmasters and headmistresses snoozing in their frames, thinking about what he had just heard, and running his fingers over his scar. It had stopped hurting now.

He felt much calmer, somehow, now that he was in Dumbledore's office, knowing he would shortly be telling him about the dream. Harry looked up at the walls behind the desk. The patched and ragged Sorting Hat was standing on a shelf. A glass case next to it held a magnificent silver sword with large rubies set into the hilt, which Harry recognized as the one he himself had pulled out of the Sorting Hat in his second year. The sword had once belonged to Godric Gryffindor, founder of Harry's House. He was gazing at it, remembering how it had come to his aid when he had thought all hope was lost, when he noticed a patch of silvery light, dancing and shimmering on the glass case. He looked around for the source of the light and saw a sliver of silver-white shining brightly from within a black cabinet behind him, whose door had not been closed properly. Harry hesitated, glanced at Fawkes, then got up, walked across the office, and pulled open the cabinet door.

A shallow stone basin lay there, with odd carvings around the edge: runes and symbols that Harry did not recognize. The silvery light was coming from the basin's contents, which were like nothing Harry had ever seen before. He could not tell whether the substance was liquid or gas. It was a bright, whitish silver, and it was moving ceaselessly; the surface of it became ruffled like water beneath wind, and then, like clouds, separated and swirled smoothly. It looked like light made liquid - or like wind made solid - Harry couldn't make up his mind.

He wanted to touch it, to find out what it felt like, but nearly four years’ experience of the magical world told him that sticking his hand into a bowl full of some unknown substance was a very stupid thing to do. He therefore pulled his wand out of the inside of his robes, cast a nervous look around the office, looked back at the contents of the basin, and prodded them.

The surface of the silvery stuff inside the basin began to swirl very fast.

Harry bent closer, his head right inside the cabinet. The silvery substance had become transparent; it looked like glass. He looked down into it expecting to see the stone bottom of the basin - and saw instead an enormous room below the surface of the mysterious substance, a room into which he seemed to be looking through a circular window in the ceiling.

The room was dimly lit; he thought it might even be underground, for there were no windows, merely torches in brackets such as the ones that illuminated the walls of Hogwarts. Lowering his face so that his nose was a mere inch away from the glassy substance, Harry saw that rows and rows of witches and wizards were seated around every wall on what seemed to be benches rising in levels. An empty chair stood in the very center of the room. There was something about the chair that gave Harry an ominous feeling. Chains encircled the arms of it, as though its occupants were usually tied to it.

Where was this place? It surely wasn't Hogwarts; he had never seen a room like that here in the castle. Moreover, the crowd in the mysterious room at the bottom of the basin was comprised of adults, and Harry knew there were not nearly that many teachers at Hogwarts. They seemed, he thought, to be waiting for something; even though he could only see the tops of their hats, all of their faces seemed to be pointing in one direction, and none of them were talking to one another.

The basin being circular, and the room he was observing square, Harry could not make out what was going on in the corners of it. He leaned even closer, tilting his head, trying to see…

The tip of his nose touched the strange substance into which he was staring.

Dumbledore's office gave an almighty lurch - Harry was thrown forward and pitched headfirst into the substance inside the basin -

But his head did not hit the stone bottom. He was falling through something icy-cold and black; it was like being sucked into a dark whirlpool -

And suddenly, Harry found himself sitting on a bench at the end of the room inside the basin, a bench raised high above the others. He looked up at the high stone ceiling, expecting to see the circular window through which he had just been staring, but there was nothing there but dark, solid stone.

Breathing hard and fast. Harry looked around him. Not one of the witches and wizards in the room (and there were at least two hundred of them) was looking at him. Not one of them seemed to have noticed that a fourteen-year-old boy had just dropped from the ceiling into their midst. Harry turned to the wizard next to him on the bench and uttered a loud cry of surprise that reverberated around the silent room.

He was sitting right next to Albus Dumbledore.

“Professor!” Harry said in a kind of strangled whisper. “I'm sorry - I didn't mean to - I was just looking at that basin in your cabinet - I - where are we?”

But Dumbledore didn't move or speak. He ignored Harry completely. Like every other wizard on the benches, he was staring into the far corner of the room, where there was a door.

Harry gazed, nonplussed, at Dumbledore, then around at the silently watchful crowd, then back at Dumbledore. And then it dawned on him.…

Once before. Harry had found himself somewhere that nobody could see or hear him. That time, he had fallen through a page in an enchanted diary, right into somebody else's memory…and unless he was very much mistaken, something of the sort had happened again…

Harry raised his right hand, hesitated, and then waved it energetically in from of Dumbledore's face. Dumbledore did not blink, look around at Harry, or indeed move at all. And that, in Harry's opinion, settled the matter. Dumbledore wouldn't ignore him like that. He was inside a memory, and this was not the present-day Dumbledore. Yet it couldn't be that long ago…the Dumbledore sitting next to him now was silver-haired, just like the present-day Dumbledore. But what was this place? What were all these wizards waiting for?

Harry looked around more carefully. The room, as he had suspected when observing it from above, was almost certainly underground - more of a dungeon than a room, he thought. There was a bleak and forbidding air about the place; there were no pictures on the walls, no decorations at all; just these serried rows of benches, rising in levels all around the room, all positioned so that they had a clear view of that chair with the chains on its arms.

Before Harry could reach any conclusions about the place in which they were, he heard footsteps. The door in the corner of the dungeon opened and three people entered - or at least one man, flanked by two dementors.

Harry's insides went cold. The dementors - tall, hooded creatures whose faces were concealed - were gliding slowly toward the chair in the center of the room, each grasping one of the man's arms with their dead and rotten-looking hands. The man between them looked as though he was about to faint, and Harry couldn't blame him…he knew the dementors could not touch him inside a memory, but he remembered their power only too well. The watching crowd recoiled slightly as the dementors placed the man in the chained chair and glided back out of the room. The door swung shut behind them.

Harry looked down at the man now sitting in the chair and saw that it was Karkaroff.

Unlike Dumbledore, Karkaroff looked much younger; his hair and goatee were black. He was not dressed in sleek furs, but in thin and ragged robes. He was shaking. Even as Harry watched, the chains on the arms of the chair glowed suddenly gold and snaked their way up Karkaroff's arms, binding him there.

“Igor Karkaroff,” said a curt voice to Harry's left. Harry looked around and saw Mr. Crouch standing up in the middle of the bench beside him. Crouch's hair was dark, his face was much less lined, he looked fit and alert. “You have been brought from Azkaban to present evidence to the Ministry of Magic. You have given us to understand that you have important information for us.”

Karkaroff straightened himself as best he could, tightly bound to the chair.

“I have, sir,” he said, and although his voice was very scared, Harry could still hear the familiar unctuous note in it. “I wish to be of use to the Ministry. I wish to help. I - I know that the Ministry is trying to - to round up the last of the Dark Lords supporters. I am eager to assist in any way I can.…”

There was a murmur around the benches. Some of the wizards and witches were surveying Karkaroff with interest, others with pronounced mistrust. Then Harry heard, quite distinctly, from Dumbledores other side, a familiar, growling voice saying, “Filth.”

Harry leaned forward so that he could see past Dumbledore. Mad-Eye Moody was sitting there - except that there was a very noticeable difference in his appearance. He did not have his magical eye, but two normal ones. Both were looking down upon Karkaroff, and both were narrowed in intense dislike.

“Crouch is going to let him out,” Moody breathed quietly to Dumbledore. “He's done a deal with him. Took me six months to track him down, and Crouch is going to let him go if he's got enough new names. Let's hear his information, I say, and throw him straight back to the dementors.”

Dumbledore made a small noise of dissent through his long, crooked nose.

“Ah, I was forgetting…you don't like the dementors, do you, Albus?” said Moody with a sardonic smile.

“No,” said Dumbledore calmly, “I'm afraid I don't. I have long felt the Ministry is wrong to ally itself with such creatures.”

“But for filth like this…” Moody said softly.

“You say you have names for us, Karkaroff,” said Mr. Crouch. “Let us hear them, please.”

“You must understand,” said Karkaroff hurriedly, “that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named operated always in the greatest secrecy.…He preferred that we - I mean to say, his supporters - and I regret now, very deeply, that I ever counted myself among them -”

“Get on with it,” sneered Moody.

“- we never knew the names of every one of our fellows - He alone knew exactly who we all were -”

“Which was a wise move, wasn't it, as it prevented someone like you, Karkaroff, from turning all of them in,” muttered Moody.

“Yet you say you have some names for us?” said Mr. Crouch.

“I - I do,” said Karkaroff breathlessly. “And these were important supporters, mark you. People I saw with my own eyes doing his bidding. I give this information as a sign that I fully and totally renounce him, and am filled with a remorse so deep I can barely -”

“These names are?” said Mr. Crouch sharply.

Karkaroff drew a deep breath.

“There was Antonin Dolohov,” he said. “I - I saw him torture countless Muggles and - and non-supporters of the Dark Lord.”

“And helped him do it,” murmured Moody.

“We have already apprehended Dolohov,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after yourself.”

“Indeed?” said Karkaroff, his eyes widening. “I - I am delighted to hear it!”

But he didn't look it. Harry could tell that this news had come as a real blow to him. One of his names was worthless.

“Any others?” said Crouch coldly.

“Why, yes…there was Rosier,” said Karkaroff hurriedly. “Evan Rosier.”

“Rosier is dead,” said Crouch. “He was caught shortly after you were too. He preferred to fight rather than come quietly and was killed in the struggle.”

“Took a bit of me with him, though,” whispered Moody to Harry's right. Harry looked around at him once more, and saw him indicating the large chunk out of his nose to Dumbledore.

“No - no more than Rosier deserved!” said Karkaroff, a real note of panic in his voice now. Harry could see that he was starting to worry that none of his information would be of any use to the Ministry. Karkaroff's eyes darted toward the door in the corner, behind which the dementors undoubtedly still stood, waiting.

“Any more?” said Crouch.

“Yes!” said Karkaroff. “There was Travers - he helped murder the McKinnons! Mulciber - he specialized in the Imperius Curse, forced countless people to do horrific things! Rookwood, who was a spy, and passed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named useful information from inside the Ministry itself!”

Harry could tell that, this time, Karkaroff had struck gold. The watching crowd was all murmuring together.

“Rookwood?” said Mr. Crouch, nodding to a witch sitting in front of him, who began scribbling upon her piece of parchment. “Augustus Rookwood of the Department of Mysteries?”

“The very same,” said Karkaroff eagerly. “I believe he used a network of well-placed wizards, both inside the Ministry and out, to collect information -”

“But Travers and Mulciber we have,” said Mr. Crouch. “Very well, Karkaroff, if that is all, you will be returned to Azkaban while we decide -”

“Not yet!” cried Karkaroff, looking quite desperate. “Wait, I have more!”

Harry could see him sweating in the torchlight, his white skin contrasting strongly with the black of his hair and beard.

“Snape!” he shouted. “Severus Snape!”

“Snape has been cleared by this council,” said Crouch disdainfully. “He has been vouched for by Albus Dumbledore.”

“No!” shouted Karkaroff, straining at the chains that bound him to the chair. “I assure you! Severus Snape is a Death Eater!”

Dumbledore had gotten to his feet.

“I have given evidence already on this matter,” he said calmly. “Severus Snape was indeed a Death Eater. However, he rejoined our side before Lord Voldemort's downfall and turned spy for us, at great personal risk. He is now no more a Death Eater than I am.”

Harry turned to look at Mad-Eye Moody. He was wearing a look of deep skepticism behind Dumbledore's back.

“Very well, Karkaroff,” Crouch said coldly, “you have been of assistance. I shall review your case. You will return to Azkaban in the meantime.…”

Mr. Crouch's voice faded. Harry looked around; the dungeon was dissolving as though it were made of smoke; everything was fading; he could see only his own body - all else was swirling darkness.…

And then, the dungeon returned. Harry was sitting in a different seat, still on the highest bench, but now to the left side of Mr. Crouch. The atmosphere seemed quite different: relaxed, even cheerful. The witches and wizards all around the walls were talking to one another, almost as though they were at some sort of sporting event. Harry noticed a witch halfway up the rows of benches opposite. She had short blonde hair, was wearing magenta robes, and was sucking the end of an acid-green quill. It was, unmistakably, a younger Rita Skeeter. Harry looked around; Dumbledore was sitting beside him again, wearing different robes. Mr. Crouch looked more tired and somehow fiercer, gaunter.…Harry understood. It was a different memory, a different day…a different trial.

The door in the corner opened, and Ludo Bagman walked into the room.

This was not, however, a Ludo Bagman gone to seed, but a Ludo Bagman who was clearly at the height of his Quidditch-playing fitness. His nose wasn't broken now; he was tall and lean and muscular. Bagman looked nervous as he sat down in the chained chair, but it did not bind him there as it had bound Karkaroff, and Bagman, perhaps taking heart from this, glanced around at the watching crowd, waved at a couple of them, and managed a small smile.

“Ludo Bagman, you have been brought here in front of the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters,” said Mr. Crouch. “We have heard the evidence against you, and are about to reach our verdict. Do you have anything to add to your testimony before we pronounce judgment?”

Harry couldn't believe his ears. Ludo Bagman, a Death Eater?

“Only,” said Bagman, smiling awkwardly, “well - I know I've been a bit of an idiot -”

One or two wizards and witches in the surrounding seats smiled indulgently. Mr. Crouch did not appear to share their feelings. He was staring down at Ludo Bagman with an expression of the utmost severity and dislike.

“You never spoke a truer word, boy,” someone muttered dryly to Dumbledore behind Harry. He looked around and saw Moody sitting there again. “If I didn't know he'd always been dim, I'd have said some of those Bludgers had permanently affected his brain.…”

“Ludovic Bagman, you were caught passing information to Lord Voldemort's supporters,” said Mr. Crouch. “For this, I suggest a term of imprisonment in Azkaban lasting no less than -”

But there was an angry outcry from the surrounding benches. Several of the witches and wizards around the walls stood up, shaking their heads, and even their fists, at Mr. Crouch.

“But I've told you, I had no idea!” Bagman called earnestly over the crowd's babble, his round blue eyes widening. “None at all! Old Rookwood was a friend of my dad's…never crossed my mind he was in with You-Know-Who! I thought I was collecting information for our side! And Rookwood kept talking about getting me a job in the Ministry later on…once my Quidditch days are over, you know…I mean, I can't keep getting hit by Bludgers for the rest of my life, can I?”

There were titters from the crowd.

“It will be put to the vote,” said Mr. Crouch coldly. He turned to the right-hand side of the dungeon. “The jury will please raise their hands…those in favor of imprisonment…”

Harry looked toward the right-hand side of the dungeon. Not one person raised their hand. Many of the witches and wizards around the walls began to clap. One of the witches on the jury stood up.

“Yes?” barked Crouch.

“We'd just like to congratulate Mr. Bagman on his splendid performance for England in the Quidditch match against Turkey last Saturday,” the witch said breathlessly.

Mr. Crouch looked furious. The dungeon was ringing with applause now. Bagman got to his feet and bowed, beaming.

“Despicable,” Mr. Crouch spat at Dumbledore, sitting down as Bagman walked out of the dungeon. “Rookwood get him a job indeed.…The day Ludo Bagman joins us will be a sad day indeed for the Ministry.…”

And the dungeon dissolved again. When it had returned, Harry looked around. He and Dumbledore were still sitting beside Mr. Crouch, but the atmosphere could not have been more different. There was total silence, broken only by the dry sobs of a frail, wispy-looking witch in the seat next to Mr. Crouch. She was clutching a handkerchief to her mouth with trembling hands.

Harry looked up at Crouch and saw that he looked gaunter and grayer than ever before. A nerve was twitching in his temple.

“Bring them in,” he said, and his voice echoed through the silent dungeon.

The door in the corner opened yet again. Six dementors entered this time, flanking a group of four people. Harry saw the people in the crowd turn to look up at Mr. Crouch. A few of them whispered to one another.

The dementors placed each of the four people in the four chairs with chained arms that now stood on the dungeon floor. There was a thickset man who stared blankly up at Crouch; a thinner and more nervous-looking man, whose eyes were darting around the crowd; a woman with thick, shining dark hair and heavily hooded eyes, who was sitting in the chained chair as though it were a throne; and a boy in his late teens, who looked nothing short of petrified. He was shivering, his straw-colored hair all over his face, his freckled skin milk-white. The wispy little witch beside Crouch began to rock backward and forward in her seat, whimpering into her handkerchief.

Crouch stood up. He looked down upon the four in front of him, and there was pure hatred in his face.

“You have been brought here before the Council of Magical Law,” he said clearly, “so that we may pass judgment on you, for a crime so heinous -”

“Father,” said the boy with the straw-colored hair. “Father…please…”

“- that we have rarely heard the like of it within this court,” said Crouch, speaking more loudly, drowning out his son's voice.

“We have heard the evidence against you. The four of you stand accused of capturing an Auror - Frank Longbottom - and subjecting him to the Cruciatus Curse, believing him to have knowledge of the present whereabouts of your exiled master, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named -”

“Father, I didn't!” shrieked the boy in chains below. “I didn't, I swear it. Father, don't send me back to the dementors -”

“You are further accused,” bellowed Mr. Crouch, “of using the Cruciatus Curse on Frank Longbottom's wife, when he would not give you information. You planned to restore He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to power, and to resume the lives of violence you presumably led while he was strong. I now ask the jury -”

“Mother!” screamed the boy below, and the wispy little witch beside Crouch began to sob, rocking backward and forward. “Mother, stop him. Mother, I didn't do it, it wasn't me!”

“I now ask the jury,” shouted Mr. Crouch, “to raise their hands if they believe, as I do, that these crimes deserve a life sentence in Azkaban!”

In unison, the witches and wizards along the right-hand side of the dungeon raised their hands. The crowd around the walls began to clap as it had for Bagman, their faces full of savage triumph. The boy began to scream.

“No! Mother, no! I didn't do it, I didn't do it, I didn't know! Don't send me there, don't let him!”

The dementors were gliding back into the room. The boys’ three companions rose quietly from their seats; the woman with the heavy-lidded eyes looked up at Crouch and called, “The Dark Lord will rise again, Crouch! Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait! He will rise again and will come for us, he will reward us beyond any of his other supporters! We alone were faithful! We alone tried to find him!”

But the boy was trying to fight off the dementors, even though Harry could see their cold, draining power starting to affect him. The crowd was jeering, some of them on their feet, as the woman swept out of the dungeon, and the boy continued to struggle.

“I'm your son!” he screamed up at Crouch. “I'm your son!”

“You are no son of mine!” bellowed Mr. Crouch, his eyes bulging suddenly. “I have no son!”

The wispy witch beside him gave a great gasp and slumped in her seat. She had fainted. Crouch appeared not to have noticed.

“Take them away!” Crouch roared at the dementors, spit flying from his mouth. “Take them away, and may they rot there!”

“Father! Father, I wasn't involved! No! No! Father, please!”

“I think. Harry, it is time to return to my office,” said a quiet voice in Harry's ear.

Harry started. He looked around. Then he looked on his other side.

There was an Albus Dumbledore sitting on his right, watching Crouch's son being dragged away by the dementors - and there was an Albus Dumbledore on his left, looking right at him.

“Come,” said the Dumbledore on his left, and he put his hand under Harry's elbow. Harry felt himself rising into the air; the dungeon dissolved around him; for a moment, all was blackness, and then he felt as though he had done a slow-motion somersault, suddenly landing flat on his feet, in what seemed like the dazzling light of Dumbledore's sunlit office. The stone basin was shimmering in the cabinet in front of him, and Albus Dumbledore was standing beside him.

“Professor,” Harry gasped, “I know I shouldn't've - I didn't mean - the cabinet door was sort of open and -”

“I quite understand,” said Dumbledore. He lifted the basin, carried it over to his desk, placed it upon the polished top, and sat down in the chair behind it. He motioned for Harry to sit down opposite him.

Harry did so, staring at the stone basin. The contents had returned to their original, silvery-white state, swirling and rippling beneath his gaze.

“What is it?” Harry asked shakily.

“This? It is called a Pensieve,” said Dumbledore. “I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.”

“Er,” said Harry, who couldn't truthfully say that he had ever felt anything of the sort.

“At these times,” said Dumbledore, indicating the stone basin, “I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and examines them at one's leisure. It becomes easier to spot patterns and links, you understand, when they are in this form.”

“You mean…that stuff's your thoughts?” Harry said, staring at the swirling white substance in the basin.

“Certainly,” said Dumbledore. “Let me show you.”

Dumbledore drew his wand out of the inside of his robes and placed the tip into his own silvery hair, near his temple. When he took the wand away, hair seemed to be clinging to it - but then Harry saw that it was in fact a glistening strand of the same strange silvery-white substance that filled the Pensieve. Dumbledore added this fresh thought to the basin, and Harry, astonished, saw his own face swimming around the surface of the bowl. Dumbledore placed his long hands on either side of the Pensieve and swirled it, rather as a gold prospector would pan for fragments of gold.…and Harry saw his own face change smoothly into Snape's, who opened his mouth and spoke to the ceiling, his voice echoing slightly.

“It's coming back…Karkaroff's too…stronger and clearer than ever…”

“A connection I could have made without assistance,” Dumbledore sighed, “but never mind.” He peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at Harry, who was gaping at Snape's face, which was continuing to swirl around the bowl. “I was using the Pensieve when Mr. Fudge arrived for our meeting and put it away rather hastily. Undoubtedly I did not fasten the cabinet door properly. Naturally, it would have attracted your attention.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore shook his head. “Curiosity is not a sin,” he said. “But we should exercise caution with our curiosity…yes, indeed…”

Frowning slightly, he prodded the thoughts within the basin with the tip of his wand. Instantly, a figure rose out of it, a plump, scowling girl of about sixteen, who began to revolve slowly, with her feet still in the basin. She took no notice whatsoever of Harry or Professor Dumbledore. When she spoke, her voice echoed as Snape's had done, as though it were coming from the depths of the stone basin. “He put a hex on me, Professor Dumbledore, and I was only teasing him, sir, I only said I'd seen him kissing Florence behind the greenhouses last Thursday.…”

“But why. Bertha,” said Dumbledore sadly, looking up at the now silently revolving girl, “why did you have to follow him in the first place?”

“Bertha?” Harry whispered, looking up at her. “Is that - was that Bertha Jorkins?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, prodding the thoughts in the basin again; Bertha sank back into them, and they became silvery and opaque once more. “That was Bertha as I remember her at school.”

The silvery light from the Pensieve illuminated Dumbledore's face, and it struck Harry suddenly how very old he was looking. He knew, of course, that Dumbledore was getting on in years, but somehow he never really thought of Dumbledore as an old man.

“So, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Before you got lost in my thoughts, you wanted to tell me something.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Professor - I was in Divination just now, and - er - I fell asleep.”

He hesitated here, wondering if a reprimand was coming, but Dumbledore merely said, “Quite understandable. Continue.”

“Well, I had a dream,” said Harry. “A dream about Lord Voldemort. He was torturing Wormtail…you know who Wormtail-”

“I do know,” said Dumbledore promptly. “Please continue.”

“Voldemort got a letter from an owl. He said something like, Wormtail's blunder had been repaired. He said someone was dead. Then he said, Wormtail wouldn't be fed to the snake - there was a snake beside his chair. He said - he said he'd be feeding me to it, instead. Then he did the Cruciatus Curse on Wormtail - and my scar hurt,” Harry said. “It woke me up, it hurt so badly.”

Dumbledore merely looked at him.

“Er - that's all,” said Harry.

“I see,” said Dumbledore quietly. “I see. Now, has your scar hurt at any other time this year, excepting the time it woke you up over the summer?”

“No, I - how did you know it woke me up over the summer?” said Harry, astonished.

“You are not Sirius's only correspondent,” said Dumbledore. “I have also been in contact with him ever since he left Hogwarts last year. It was I who suggested the mountainside cave as the safest place for him to stay.”

Dumbledore got up and began walking up and down behind his desk. Every now and then, he placed his wand tip to his temple, removed another shining silver thought, and added it to the Pensieve. The thoughts inside began to swirl so fast that Harry couldn't make out anything clearly: It was merely a blur of color.

“Professor?” he said quietly, after a couple of minutes.

Dumbledore stopped pacing and looked at Harry.

“My apologies,” he said quietly. He sat back down at his desk.

“D'you - d'you know why my scar's hurting me?”

Dumbledore looked very intently at Harry for a moment, and then said, “I have a theory, no more than that.…It is my belief that your scar hurts both when Lord Voldemort is near you, and when he is feeling a particularly strong surge of hatred.”

“But…why?”

“Because you and he are connected by the curse that failed,” said Dumbledore. “That is no ordinary scar.”

“So you think…that dream…did it really happen?”

“It is possible,” said Dumbledore. “I would say - probable. Harry - did you see Voldemort?”

“No,” said Harry. “Just the back of his chair. But - there wouldn't have been anything to see, would there? I mean, he hasn't got a body, has he? But…but then how could he have held the wand?” Harry said slowly.

“How indeed?” muttered Dumbledore. “How indeed…”

Neither Dumbledore nor Harry spoke for a while. Dumbledore was gazing across the room, and, every now and then, placing his wand tip to his temple and adding another shining silver thought to the seething mass within the Pensieve.

“Professor,” Harry said at last, “do you think he's getting stronger?”

“Voldemort?” said Dumbledore, looking at Harry over the Pensieve. It was the characteristic, piercing look Dumbledore had given him on other occasions, and always made Harry feel as though Dumbledore were seeing right through him in a way that even Moody's magical eye could not. “Once again. Harry, I can only give you my suspicions.”

Dumbledore sighed again, and he looked older, and wearier, than ever.

“The years of Voldemort's ascent to power,” he said, “were marked with disappearances. Bertha Jorkins has vanished without a trace in the place where Voldemort was certainly known to be last. Mr. Crouch too has disappeared…within these very grounds. And there was a third disappearance, one which the Ministry, I regret to say, do not consider of any importance, for it concerns a Muggle. His name was Frank Bryce, he lived in the village where Voldemort's father grew up, and he has not been seen since last August. You see, I read the Muggle newspapers, unlike most of my Ministry friends.”

Dumbledore looked very seriously at Harry.

“These disappearances seem to me to be linked. The Ministry disagrees - as you may have heard, while waiting outside my office.”

Harry nodded. Silence fell between them again, Dumbledore extracting thoughts every now and then. Harry felt as though he ought to go, but his curiosity held him in his chair.

“Professor?” he said again.

“Yes, Harry?” said Dumbledore.

“Er…could I ask you about…that court thing I was in…in the Pensieve?”

“You could,” said Dumbledore heavily. “I attended it many times, but some trials come back to me more clearly than others…particularly now.…”

“You know - you know the trial you found me in? The one with Crouch's son? Well.…were they talking about Neville's parents?”

Dumbledore gave Harry a very sharp look. ” Has Neville never told you why he has been brought up by his grandmother?” he said.

Harry shook his head, wondering, as he did so, how he could have failed to ask Neville this, in almost four years of knowing him.

“Yes, they were talking about Neville's parents,” said Dumbledore. “His father, Frank, was an Auror just like Professor Moody. He and his wife were tortured for information about Voldemort's whereabouts after he lost his powers, as you heard.”

“So they're dead?” said Harry quietly.

“No,” said Dumbledore, his voice full of a bitterness Harry had never heard there before. “They are insane. They are both in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. I believe Neville visits them, with his grandmother, during the holidays. They do not recognize him.”

Harry sat there, horror-struck. He had never known…never, in four years, bothered to find out…

“The Longbottoms were very popular,” said Dumbledore. “The attacks on them came after Voldemort's fall from power, just when everyone thought they were safe. Those attacks caused a wave of fury such as I have never known. The Ministry was under great pressure to catch those who had done it. Unfortunately, the Longbottoms’ evidence was - given their condition - none too reliable.”

“Then Mr. Crouch's son might not have been involved?” said Harry slowly.

Dumbledore shook his head.

“As to that, I have no idea.”

Harry sat in silence once more, watching the contents of the Pensieve swirl. There were two more questions he was burning to ask…but they concerned the guilt of living people.…

“Er,” he said, “Mr. Bagman.…”

“…has never been accused of any Dark activity since,” said Dumbledore calmly.

“Right,” said Harry hastily, staring at the contents of the Pensieve again, which were swirling more slowly now that Dumbledore had stopped adding thoughts. “And…er…”

But the Pensieve seemed to be asking his question for him.

Snape's face was swimming on the surface again. Dumbledore glanced down into it, and then up at Harry.

“No more has Professor Snape,” he said.

Harry looked into Dumbledore's light blue eyes, and the thing he really wanted to know spilled out of his mouth before he could stop it.

“What made you think he'd really stopped supporting Voldemort, Professor?”

Dumbledore held Harry's gaze for a few seconds, and then said, “That, Harry, is a matter between Professor Snape and myself.”

Harry knew that the interview was over; Dumbledore did not look angry, yet there was a finality in his tone that told Harry it was time to go. He stood up, and so did Dumbledore.

“Harry,” he said as Harry reached the door. “Please do not speak about Neville's parents to anybody else. He has the right to let people know, when he is ready.”

“Yes, Professor,” said Harry, turning to go.

“And-”

Harry looked back. Dumbledore was standing over the Pensieve, his face lit from beneath by its silvery spots of light, looking older than ever. He stared at Harry for a moment, and then said, “Good luck with the third task.”

办公室的门开了。

　　“哈罗，波特，”莫迪说，“进来吧。”

　　哈利走进来。他以前曾进过丹伯多的办公室；它是一个非常漂亮的圆形房间，墙上排列着霍格瓦彻历届校长和夫人的照片，他们都睡得很熟，胸膛在微微起伏。

　　法治站在丹伯多的桌子旁边，穿着他平时的细条纹大衣，戴着项灰绿色的圆顶硬礼帽。

　　“哈利！”法治快活地叫着走向前，“你好吗？”

　　“很好！”哈利撒谎说。

　　“我们正在谈那晚克劳斯先生在森林里被发现的事。”法治说：“是你发现他的吧？”

　　“是的，”哈利说。然后，他觉得假装刚才没有在门外听到他们的谈话有点不礼貌，他加上一句：“我当时到处也没见玛西姆夫人，也许她有工作要做，不是吗？”

　　丹伯多在法治背后对他笑，眨眨眼睛。

　　“是吗。”法治看起来很尴尬，“我们正要到森林里去一下，哈利，所以请原谅……或许你先回教室——”

　　“我要和您谈谈，教授。”哈利飞快地说，看着丹伯多，后者用询问的眼光瞄了他一眼。“在这儿等我，哈利，”丹伯多说，“我们很快就回来，不会花太长时间的。”

　　他们一起出去了，并关上门。过了一两分钟，哈利听到下面莫迪的木腿敲着地面的声音越走越远，他看看周围。

　　“哈罗，达摩克。”他说。

　　达摩克，教授的凤凰鸟，正站在门旁的金栖木上。它的体型和天鹅一样大，鲜红和金色相间的羽毛非常漂亮。它正沙沙地动了动它的长尾巴，亲切地看着哈利。

　　哈利在丹伯多的桌子前坐下。有好几分钟，他坐在那儿看着老校长和夫人们在相框里面打着盹，心里想着他刚才听到的话，用手摸摸他的疤痕，现在它不疼了。

　　他觉得平静了些，因为怎么说他已经在丹伯多的办公室里了，不久就可以告诉他关于那个梦，哈利抬起头看向桌子后面的墙：打满补丁，破破烂烂的帽子正放在一个架子上，它旁边是一个玻璃盒子，里面装着一把非常漂亮的银剑，一颗大红宝石键在柄上，他认出来这就是他在二年级时从帽子里抽出来的那把剑，它曾属于哥德里克。格林芬顿，——哈利所住的那间房子的建造者。他凝视着它，想起当初，他在绝望的时候，它曾帮了他多大的忙啊。这时他注意到一小片银光在玻璃盒上跳跃，闪烁不定。他看看周围，想找出光线的来源，然后他看到一道银白的亮光正从他后面的一个黑橱柜里射出来，因为橱柜的门没有关好。哈利犹豫了一下，瞥了达摩克一眼，然后站起来走到橱柜面前，把门打开。

　　一个浅浅的石盆放在那儿，边缘饰有古怪的雕刻，像是一些古怪的字母和符号，哈利一个也不认识；这银色的光是来自于盆里装的东西，它不像哈利以前见过的任何东西。他甚至不知道这种物质。是液体还是气体，它带一种明亮的银白，还在不停地移动；它的表面像风吹过水面一样起着涟漪，然而，又像云一样，一会儿分开，一会儿打转。它像光的液体——又像风的固体——哈利很难断定。

　　他想碰碰它，看它感觉起来像什么，但在魔法世界里生活的四年经验告诉他，把手伸到一盆不知道是什么的物质里去是件非常愚蠢的事。所以他把手伸到袍子里，拿出魔杖，紧张地看了看办公室周围，眼光再转回盆子里装的东西。他用棒戳了戳它。这银色物质的表面马上开始旋转，越转越快。

　　哈利弯下腰，把头伸进了橱柜。这银色物质已经变得像玻璃一样透明。他想看着盆的底部有什么——谁知却看到这神秘的物质的表面下是一个很大的房间。他就像透过天花板上的一个圆窗户看下去一样。

　　这个房间光线很暗，他甚至想它应该是在地底，因为那儿没有窗户，只有从墙上突出来的托架上放着火把，就像霍格瓦彻用来照明的那种一样，他把脸凑得那么近，鼻子都几乎碰到了那层玻璃物质。哈利看到很多女巫和男巫围成一圈，坐在靠墙的一排排阶梯凳子上。

　　房间的正中间有一把空椅子，这椅子给哈利一种不祥的感觉，椅子的扶手是围拢着的，就像要把坐在上面的人绑在上面。

　　这是什么地方？肯定不是霍格瓦彻；他在城堡里从来没见过这样一个房间。此外，盆底显现出来的那房间里的人都是大人。哈利觉得这当中没有一个是霍格瓦彻的老师。他们看起来好像在等着什么，哈利想。虽然他只能看到他们的帽尖，但他们看起来都面对着一个方向，没人交头接耳。

　　因为石盆是圆的，而那个他正视察的房间是方的，所以他看不见角落里发生了什么事，他靠得更近了，头倾得更低，想看看……

　　他的鼻尖碰到了那奇异的物质。

　　突然，丹伯多的办公室剧烈地摇晃起来——哈利被向前抛去，一头栽到了那盆里装的东西里去。

　　但他的头并没有碰到盆底，他掉到又黑又冰冷的什么东西里去了，他一直在往下陷，好像被吸进了一个黑色的漩涡。

　　突然，他发现自己就坐在那个房间里的凳子上，那凳子比其它的都高。他看着那高高的石头天花板，想看到一扇圆形的窗户，他刚才就是从那儿看下来的。但是那什么也没有，只有又黑又硬的石头。

　　哈利拼命地喘着气，看了看他周围。房间里没有一个女巫或巫师（至少有两百个）在看他。他们中看起来没有一个人注意到有个十四岁的男孩刚刚从天花板上掉下来，并且掉到他们中间里来。哈利转向坐在他旁边的一个巫师，突然失声惊呼，那叫声回荡在一片死寂的房间里。

　　他就正坐在艾伯斯。丹伯多的身边。

　　“教授！”哈利压低声音说，“我很抱歉——我不是真的想——我只是看看你橱柜里的石盆——我——我在哪？”

　　但教授一动不动，也没说话，完全忽视了哈利的存在，只是像其它人一样，盯着房间远处的角落里的一扇门。

　　哈利不知所措地盯着丹伯多，然后看了看正在静静观看的人群，然后再看着丹伯多。突然灵光一闪……

　　曾经有一次，哈利发现自己在一个别人既看不到也听不到他的世界里。那次，他掉进了一本施了魔法的日记里，进入了某人的记忆中……类似的事情又一次发生了。

　　哈利举起右手，犹豫了一下，然后伸到丹伯多面前用力挥动。丹伯多没有眨眼，也没有回过头看哈利，或者说根本一动也不动。所以他确定，他是在一个记忆中，而眼前这个并不是现实中的丹伯多。但应该也不是很久以前……这个正坐在他旁边的丹伯多的头发银白，就像现实中的丹伯多一样。但这是什么地方呢？这所有的巫师都在等什么呢？

　　哈利更仔细地打量这里。就像他刚才从上面观察时所怀疑的那样，这个房间就是在地下——与其说是房间不如说像地牢，他想。这里有一种阴森寒冷和恐怖的气氛：墙上没有画，根本就没任何装饰；整个房间就只有一排排的席位，一排比一排高，都固定好了，所以他们可以清楚地看到那椅子的扶手上有铁链。

　　在哈利对这个房间下结论前，他听到了一阵脚步声。地牢角落的那扇门开了，三个人走进来——一个人由两个得蒙特押着。

　　哈利全身发冷。那些得蒙特——高大的，戴着头盔只有眼露出来的生物正向房间中央的那个椅子滑去，每人抓着那男人的一只手臂。他们的手像死人的，已经腐烂的手，那个夹在他们中间的人看起就快晕过去了。哈利想这不能怪他……虽然他知道得蒙特不会碰到他自己，因为这是在一个记忆里，但他仍然有点害怕，因为他还清楚地记得他们有多强大。当得蒙特把那人放在有链的椅子上后，又滑出房间时，围观的人群向后退缩了一下，门在他们出去之后关上了。

　　哈利低头看着椅子上坐着的那个人，原来他是卡克罗夫。

　　不像丹伯多，卡克罗夫看起来年轻多了；他的头发和山羊胡子都是黑的。但不同的事是他穿着又薄又破的衣服而不是光滑的皮衣，他在发抖。椅子上的铁链突然闪出金光，像蛇一样爬上他的手臂，把他绑在那儿。

　　“艾格。卡克罗夫。”哈利的左边突然冒出一个声音。他向四周看看，看到克劳斯先生正站在他旁边席位的中间。克劳斯的头发还是黑色的，脸还没有那么多皱纹，看起来又凉爽又敏捷。“你是从阿兹克班被带来给魔法部提供证据的，你曾说你有重要的消息要告诉我们。”

　　卡克罗夫连忙挺直身体。

　　“我有，先生。”他说，虽然他的声音听起来非常害怕，哈利仍然听出了熟悉的油腔滑调。“我希望对魔法部有用，我想帮忙。我——我知道魔法部要围捕黑暗公爵的最后一批余党。我渴望尽我最大的努力帮忙……”

　　观众席上响起一阵嗡嗡声。有些人开始对卡克罗夫感兴趣，其他从则表示怀疑。猛地，一个熟悉低吼声从丹伯多的另一边传来说：“垃圾！”

　　哈利向前倾，目光越过丹伯多。果然，魔眼莫迪坐在那儿——虽然他外表与现在显著不同。他还没有魔眼，只有两只普通眼睛。他正眯着眼睛看着卡克罗夫，带着极度的厌恶。

　　“克劳斯准备放他出来，”莫迪小声对丹伯多说，“他已经和他达成一笔交易。花了我六个月时间去追捕他，如果他能提供足够的新名单的话，克劳斯就让他走。让我们先听听他的情报，我说，之后再把他直接扔给得蒙特好了。”

　　丹伯多那长长的鹰钩鼻轻哼了一声表示不同意。

　　“哦，我忘了……你不喜欢得蒙特，不是吗，艾伯斯？”莫迪的脸上带着嘲讽的笑。

　　“是的，”丹伯多淡淡地说，“我不喜欢它们，我一直觉得魔法部与这种生物结盟是个错误。”

　　“但对这种垃圾……”莫迪轻声说。

　　“你说你能向我们提供名字，卡克罗夫，”克劳斯先生说，“那就请说出来听听。”

　　“您应该明白。”卡克罗夫急忙说，“那个‘那个人’总是以最秘密的方式操纵一切……他喜欢那样，我们——我是说，他的支持者们——现在我很懊悔，非常的后悔，我曾经是他们中的一员——”

　　“说下去啊！”莫迪嗤之以鼻。

　　“——我们从来不知道自己同伙的名字——只有他一个人知道我们所有的人都是谁——”

　　“真是个聪明的主意，这样就保护了像你这样的人，卡克罗夫，而把其它人都给出卖了。”莫迪咕哝着。

　　“但你说你能给我们名字？”克劳斯先生说。

　　“我，我能。”卡克罗夫上气不接下气地说，“他们是很重要的党徒，不怕告诉您，我看到了他，他在等候时机，我提供这个情报表示我彻底和他决裂，而且对他表示深切的怜悯和同情，我几乎不……”

　　“他们的名字是？”克劳斯先生严厉地说。

　　卡克罗夫作了一个深呼吸。

　　“是安东尼。多拉邦弗。”他说，“我——我看到他无数次地折磨拷打马格人和……不支持黑暗公爵的人。”

　　“还帮他一起折磨他们。”莫迪咕哝着。

　　“我们已经拘捕了多拉邦弗，”克劳斯说：“他在你之后不久就被抓住了。”

　　“真的？”卡克罗夫说，他的眼睛睁得大大的，“我——我很高——兴听到这个消息！”

　　但他看起来一点也不。哈利想这对他真是一大打击，他能提供的名字中有一个已经没用了。

　　“还有其它吗？”克劳斯冷冷地说。

　　“为什么，当然……还有罗斯尔，”卡克罗夫急忙说，“埃文。罗斯尔。”

　　“罗斯尔已经死了，他在你之后不久也被抓住了。他看起来，更喜欢反抗而不是乖乖地来，所以在顽抗中被打死了。”

　　“那把我的功劳也说说啊。”莫迪对哈利右边的人低声说，哈利再看了看他，只见他正把鼻子里插着的大木块指给丹伯多看。

　　“不——不过分，这是他罪有应得！”卡克罗夫说，声音里夹着一丝恐慌，可以看出，他开始害怕他的情报没有一个有用。卡克罗夫的眼睛盯着角落里的那扇门，毫无疑问，得蒙特正在门后守着。

　　“还有吗？“克劳斯说。

　　“有！”卡克罗夫。“还有特雷维斯——他谋杀了麦金得斯！马尔希伯——他擅长英帕雷斯咒语，驱使无数的人去做可怕的事！罗克乌得，他是个间谍，专门从魔法部里向‘那个人’传递情报！”

　　可以说，这次卡克罗夫的话起作用了，观众开始交头接耳。

　　“罗克乌得？”克劳斯先生说，他向一个坐在他前面的女巫点了点头，后者马上在羊皮纸上刷刷地写着，“神秘事件分部的罗克乌得吗？”

　　“不错，”卡克罗夫急忙说，“我想他操纵着一个关系网，那些人专门负责从魔法部里外收集情报——”

　　“但是我们已经知道特雷维斯和马尔希伯了，”克劳斯先生说，“非常好，卡克罗夫，如果就是这些，你可以先回阿兹克班等我们决定——”

　　“还没完！”卡克罗夫叫道，看起来很绝望。“等一等，我还有更多！”

　　在火把微弱的光芒下，哈利看到他冷汗直流，脸色白得吓人，和他黑色的头发和胡子形成强烈的对比。

　　“史纳皮！”他叫道，“塞维罗斯。史纳皮！”

　　“史纳皮已经被议会排除在外了，”克劳斯冷冷地说：“艾伯斯。丹伯多先生为他担保。”

　　“不可能！”卡克罗夫吼道，身上的链子绷得紧紧的。“我向您保

　　证！塞维罗斯。史纳皮是个食尸者！“

　　丹伯多站起来。“为此我已经提供证明。”他平静地说，“塞维罗斯。史纳皮确实是个食尸者。但在福尔得库特公爵垮台之前，他就已经转向我们这边了，并为我们作卧底提供情报。他个人是冒着生命危险的。他现在不再是个食尸者了。”

　　哈利转身看着玛特艾。莫迪。他用深深怀疑的眼光看着丹伯多的背影。

　　“好了，卡克罗夫，”克劳斯冷冷地说，“你已经帮过忙了，我会重新考虑你的案子的，你现在先回阿兹克班……”

　　克劳斯先生的声音越飘越远。哈利看看四周，这个地牢像烟雾一样正在消失；所有的东西都开始变得模糊起来。他只能看见自己的身体周围的一切都像旋转着的黑色漩涡……

　　但不久，地牢又出现了。哈利发现自己坐在和原来不同的位置；仍然是最高的一排。但他右边的人变成了克劳斯先生。这儿的气氛比原来的轻松多了，甚至有点兴高采烈。大家在交头接耳，好像在观看体育赛事。对面中间一排上有个女巫引起了哈利的注意。她留着金色短发，穿着紫红色的袍子。不会错的，她就是年轻的理特。史姬特。哈利看了看四周，丹伯多又坐在他旁边了，但穿着一件不同的袍子。克劳斯先生看起来更憔悴而且更瘦更严厉了……哈利知道了。

　　这是个不同的记忆，不同的一天……一个不同的审讯。

　　角落的门开了，露得。巴格蒙走了进来。

　　这不像现实中的那个露得。巴格蒙。他仍有着一副快迪斯选手身材。他的鼻子还没被打扁后起来又高又瘦但很有力气。他在那带链子的椅子上坐下，看起来很紧张。但那椅子却没有把他像卡克罗夫一样绑起来。巴格蒙好像也感觉到这点，放松了一下。他用眼睛扫了一下观众，向其中两个人挥挥手，勉强笑了芙。

　　“露得。巴格蒙，你被带到魔法世界法庭来是为了对你的被控进行答辩的。你被控与戴斯。艾特们有关系。”克劳斯说，“我们听说了那些对你不利的证据，现在准备宣布我们的判决，在此之前你还要在你的证词上加上什么吗？”

　　哈利简直不敢相信自己的耳朵。露得。巴格蒙，一个食尸者？

　　“只有一点。”巴格蒙。傻笑着说，“呃，我觉得我以前有点像傻瓜——”

　　一两个观众纵声大笑。但克劳斯先生可没这种幽默感，他带着一种最严厉和厌恶的神情盯着露得。巴格蒙。

　　“他从来没说过比这更真的话了，小子。”有人干巴巴地对丹伯多说。哈利一看，莫迪又坐在那儿了：“要不是我知道他向来都那么蠢，我还会以为那些快迪斯球们已经给他洗了脑……”

　　“露得。巴格蒙，你是在给福尔得摩特公爵的支持者们送情报时被抓住的。所以，我建议判处他在阿兹克班服刑不少于——”

　　但这时周围的观众席上爆发出愤怒的吼声，几个女巫和巫师站起来对着克劳斯先生摇头，有的甚至挥舞着拳头。

　　“但我已经告诉你们，我不知道！”巴格蒙真诚地向乱哄哄的观众叫道，他那圆圆的蓝眼睛睁得大大的。“根本一点也不知道！老罗克乌得是我爸爸的一个朋友……我做梦也没想到他和‘那个人’是一伙的！我以为我只是在为我方收集情报！还有罗克乌得一直在说要给我在魔法部里找份工作……一旦我的快迪斯生涯结束，你们知道……我指，我不能老是被布鲁佐球踩在脚下，不是吗？”

　　观众中发出了吃吃的笑声。

　　“那么我们来投票。”克劳斯先生冷冷地说。然后转向地牢的右面说：“陪审团将会很乐意举手……赞成监禁……”

　　哈利看向地牢的右手边。没人举手，观众席上很多人开始鼓掌。

　　陪审席上有个女巫站起来。

　　“什么事？”克劳斯恼怒地咆哮。

　　“我们只是想为巴格蒙先生上星期六在快迪斯比赛上代表英格兰与土耳其对阵时的出色表演表示热烈的祝贺。”她一口气把话说完了。

　　克劳斯先生气得火冒三丈。这时地牢里却响起雷鸣般的掌声。

　　巴格蒙站起来向大家鞠躬，笑着。

　　“卑鄙，下流。”克劳斯先生对丹伯多大声说，这时巴格蒙已经走出了地牢。他仍然愤愤地说，“罗克乌得确实给了他一份工作……露得。巴格蒙加入我们的那一天对魔法部来说将会是很凄惨的一天……”

　　这时地牢又消失了。当它再次出现时，哈利发现自己和丹伯多仍旧坐在克劳斯先生的旁边，但气氛大不一样了。这里静得出奇，只有坐在克劳斯先生旁的一个脆弱纤细的女巫在抽泣着。她发抖的手紧抓着一条手绢捂着嘴。哈利抬头看着克劳斯，他好像更憔悴了，脸色比刚才更灰白，太阳穴上有根筋在不停地跳。

　　“把他们带进来。”他说，他的声音在寂静的地牢里回响。

　　角落的门又开了。这次六个得蒙特押着一行四个人进来。哈利看到人群中有人抬头看着克劳斯先生，有些人在低声耳语。

　　得蒙特把他们四人分别放在四张有链的椅子上。四人中，一个矮壮的男人茫然地看着克劳斯，还有一个比他更瘦一些，而且看起来更紧张的男人，眼睛四下看着人群。一个女人坐在椅子上，就好像它是宝座；她有一头又浓又黑的头发，眼皮厚厚的像盖子。旁边还有一个十八九岁的少年，他看起来没有那么僵硬但却在发着科，乱草般的头发垂在他脸上，奶白色的皮肤上有几粒雀斑。一看到他，克劳斯先生旁边的那个瘦小的女巫就开始坐立不安，用手绢捂着脸哭。

　　克劳斯站起来。他俯视着面前的这四个人，脸上只有纯粹的憎恨。

　　“你们被带到魔法世界法庭来，”他清楚地说，“为你们那令人发指的犯罪行为接受判决——”

　　“爸爸，”那乱草般头发的少年说，“爸爸……求求……”

　　“——我们从来没听过这样恐怖的行为，”克劳斯先生把声音抬高，把他儿子的声音盖了下去。“我们已经听过其他人的证词。你们四个被控曾抓了一个沃罗——弗兰克。兰博顿——并在他身上施了克鲁希尔特斯符咒，因为你们怀疑他知道你们那不知放逐到哪里的主人现在在哪里——”

　　“爸爸，我没有！”那男孩在链子里发抖。“我没有，我发誓，爸爸，别把我扔给得蒙特——”

　　“你们还被指控，”克劳斯先生大吼着说，“在弗兰克。兰博顿的妻子身上施了克鲁希尔特斯咒语。因为他不告诉你们想要知道的事。

　　你们也计划让他——‘那个人’——重新恢复力量。我现在要求陪审团——“

　　“妈妈！”下面那男孩尖叫着，坐在克劳斯旁边的那女人更加不安，大声地啜泣起来。那男孩大喊：“妈妈，阻止他，妈妈，我没干，不是我！”

　　“我现在要求陪审团，”克劳斯先生大叫着，“举手，如果他们像我一样相信，这些犯人应该在阿兹克班处以无期徒刑。”

　　一致地，地牢右手边的女巫和男巫们都举起了手。观众席上响起来像刚才一样雷鸣般的掌声，他们的脸上满是得意满足。那男孩子开始尖叫：“不！妈妈！不！我没干，我没干，我不知道！不要让他把我送到那儿！”

　　得蒙特进来了。另外三个人静静地从座位上站起来；那个有厚厚眼皮眼睛的女人抬头看着克劳斯并叫道：“黑暗公爵一定会东山再起的，克劳斯！把我们关在阿兹克班，我们等着！他会再来救我们的。他会比其他人更重重地嘉奖我们，因为只有我们是最忠实的！

　　只有我们要去找他！“

　　但那男孩还在挣扎着试图让得蒙特放开他，虽然哈利可以看到他们的冷酷无情和强大力量开始把他镇住了。人们在嘲笑他们，有的甚至站起来。那女人已经出去了，男孩还在挣扎。

　　“我是你儿子！”他冲着克劳斯大叫，“我是你的儿子！”

　　“你不是我的儿子！”克劳斯先生大吼，眼睛睁得圆圆的。“我没有儿子！”

　　那瘦小的女巫倒抽一口冷气，重重地跌在座位上，她晕过去了。

　　但克劳斯先生好像没有看到一样。

　　“把他们带走！”克劳斯对得蒙特咆哮着，唾沫横飞。“把他们带走，让他们烂在那儿！”

　　“爸爸，爸爸，不关我的事！不！不！爸爸，求求你！”

　　“我想，哈利，是时候回办公室了。”一个声音在哈利耳边响起。

　　哈利吓了一跳，他看看四周。然后看着他两旁。

　　他右边坐着一个艾伯斯。丹伯多，正看着克劳斯的儿子被得蒙特拖出去——而他左边也有一个艾伯斯。丹伯多，正看着他。

　　“走吧。”左边的丹伯多先生把手伸到哈利的臂弯里，哈利觉得自己升向空中，地牢消失了，在一片漆黑中，他觉得自己在慢慢翻着跟斗，突然，他的脚落到了实地，发现自己站在丹伯多阳光灿烂的办公室里，橱柜里的石盆在他面前闪烁，艾伯斯。丹伯多也站在他身边。

　　“教授，”哈利喘息着，“我知道我不应该——我并不是想——橱柜的门开了一点点而且——”

　　“我完全理解。”丹伯多说。他把盆拿到他桌子上，然后坐下，他示意哈利坐在他对面。

　　哈利坐下来，盯着那石盆。盆里的东西恢复了原样，一种银白色物质，随着他的喘息旋转，起着微波。

　　“它是什么？”哈利颤声问。

　　“这？它叫班西福，”丹伯多说，“我