Chapter 1 Dudley Demented

The hottest day of the summer so far was drawing to a close and a drowsy silence lay over the large, square houses of Privet Drive. Cars that were usually gleaming stood dusty in their drives and lawns that were once emerald green lay parched and yellowing—for the use of hosepipes had been banned due to drought. Deprived of their usual car-washing and lawn-mowing pursuits, the inhabitants of Privet Drive had retreated into the shade of their cool houses, windows thrown wide in the hope of tempting in a nonexistent breeze. The only person left outdoors was a teenage boy who was lying flat on his back in a flowerbed outside number four.

He was a skinny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who had the pinched, slightly unhealthy look of someone who has grown a lot in a short space of time. His jeans were torn and dirty, his T-shirt baggy and faded, and the soles of his trainers were peeling away from the uppers. Harry Potter's appearance did not endear him to the neighbours, who were the sort of people who thought scruffiness ought to be punishable by law, but as he had hidden himself behind a large hydrangea bush this evening he was quite invisible to passers-by. In fact, the only way he would be spotted was if his Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia stuck their heads out of the living-room window and looked straight down into the flowerbed below.

On the whole, Harry thought he was to be congratulated on his idea of hiding here. He was not, perhaps, very comfortable lying on the hot, hard earth but, on the other hand, nobody was glaring at him, grinding their teeth so loudly that he could not hear the news, or shooting nasty questions at him, as had happened every time he had tried sitting down in the living room to watch television with his aunt and uncle.

Almost as though this thought had fluttered through the open window, Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, suddenly spoke.

‘Glad to see the boy's stopped trying to butt in. Where is he, anyway?’

‘I don't know,’ said Aunt Petunia, unconcerned. ‘Not in the house.’

Uncle Vernon grunted.

‘Watching the news...’ he said scathingly. ‘I'd like to know what he's really up to. As if a normal boy cares what's on the news— Dudley hasn't got a clue what's going on; doubt he knows who the Prime Minister is! Anyway, it's not as if there'd be anything about his lot on our news—’

‘Vernon, shh!’ said Aunt Petunia. ‘The window's open!’

‘Oh—yes— sorry, dear.’

The Dursleys fell silent. Harry listened to a jingle about Fruit ‘n’ Bran breakfast cereal while he watched Mrs. Figg, a batty cat-loving old lady from nearby Wisteria Walk, amble slowly past. She was frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was very pleased he was concealed behind the bush, as Mrs. Figg had recently taken to asking him round for tea whenever she met him in the street. She had rounded the corner and vanished from view before Uncle Vernon's voice floated out of the window again.

‘Dudders out for tea?’

‘At the Polkisses',’ said Aunt Petunia fondly. ‘He's got so many little friends, he's so popular...’

Harry suppressed a snort with difficulty. The Dursleys really were astonishingly stupid about their son, Dudley. They had swallowed all his dim-witted lies about having tea with a different member of his gang every night of the summer holidays. Harry knew perfectly well that Dudley had not been to tea anywhere; he and his gang spent every evening vandalising the play park, smoking on street corners and throwing stones at passing cars and children. Harry had seen them at it during his evening walks around Little Whinging; he had spent most of the holidays wandering the streets, scavenging newspapers from bins along the way.

The opening notes of the music that heralded the seven o'clock news reached Harry's ears and his stomach turned over. Perhaps tonight—after a month of waiting—would be the night.

‘Record numbers of stranded holidaymakers fill airports as the Spanish baggage-handlers’ strike reaches its second week—’

‘Give ‘em a lifelong siesta, I would,’ snarled Uncle Vernon over the end of the newsreader's sentence, but no matter: outside in the flowerbed, Harry's stomach seemed to unclench. If anything had happened, it would surely have been the first item on the news; death and destruction were more important than stranded holidaymakers.

He let out a long, slow breath and stared up at the brilliant blue sky. Every day this summer had been the same: the tension, the expectation, the temporary relief, and then mounting tension again ... and always, growing more insistent all the time, the question of why nothing had happened yet....

He kept listening, just in case there was some small clue, not recognised for what it really was by the Muggles—an unexplained disappearance, perhaps, or some strange accident ... but the baggage-handlers’ strike was followed by news about the drought in the Southeast ('I hope he's listening next door!’ bellowed Uncle Vernon. ‘Him with his sprinklers on at three in the morning!'), then a helicopter that had almost crashed in a field in Surrey, then a famous actress's divorce from her famous husband ('As if we're interested in their sordid affairs,’ sniffed Aunt Petunia, who had followed the case obsessively in every magazine she could lay her bony hands on).

Harry closed his eyes against the now blazing evening sky as the newsreader said, ‘—and finally, Bungy the budgie has found a novel way of keeping cool this summer. Bungy, who lives at the Five Feathers in Barnsley, has learned to water ski! Mary Dorkins went to find out more.’

Harry opened his eyes. If they had reached water-skiing budgerigars, there would be nothing else worth hearing. He rolled cautiously on to his front and raised himself on to his knees and elbows, preparing to crawl out from under the window.

He had moved about two inches when several things happened in very quick succession.

A loud, echoing crack broke the sleepy silence like a gunshot; a cat streaked out from under a parked car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellowed oath and the sound of breaking china came from the Dursleys’ living room, and as though this was the signal Harry had been waiting for he jumped to his feet, at the same time pulling from the waistband of his jeans a thin wooden wand as if he were unsheathing a sword—but before he could draw himself up to full height, the top of his head collided with the Dursleys’ open window. The resultant crash made Aunt Petunia scream even louder.

Harry felt as though his head had been split in two. Eyes streaming, he swayed, trying to focus on the street to spot the source of the noise, but he had barely staggered upright when two large purple hands reached through the open window and closed tightly around his throat.

‘Put—it—away!’ Uncle Vernon snarled into Harry's ear. ‘Now! Before—anyone—sees!’

‘Get—off—me!’ Harry gasped. For a few seconds they struggled, Harry pulling at his uncle's sausage-like fingers with his left hand, his right maintaining a firm grip on his raised wand; then, as the pain in the top of Harry's head gave a particularly nasty throb, Uncle Vernon yelped and released Harry as though he had received an electric shock. Some invisible force seemed to have surged through his nephew, making him impossible to hold.

Panting, Harry fell forwards over the hydrangea bush, straightened up and stared around. There was no sign of what had caused the loud cracking noise, but there were several faces peering through various nearby windows. Harry stuffed his wand hastily back into his jeans and tried to look innocent.

‘Lovely evening!’ shouted Uncle Vernon, waving at Mrs. Number Seven opposite, who was glaring from behind her net curtains. ‘Did you hear that car backfire just now? Gave Petunia and me quite a turn!’

He continued to grin in a horrible, manic way until all the curious neighbours had disappeared from their various windows, then the grin became a grimace of rage as he beckoned Harry back towards him.

Harry moved a few steps closer, taking care to stop just short of the point at which Uncle Vernon's outstretched hands could resume their strangling.

‘What the devil do you mean by it, boy?’ asked Uncle Vernon in a croaky voice that trembled with fury.

‘What do I mean by what?’ said Harry coldly. He kept looking left and right up the street, still hoping to see the person who had made the cracking noise.

‘Making a racket like a starting pistol right outside our—’

‘I didn't make that noise,’ said Harry firmly.

Aunt Petunia's thin, horsy face now appeared beside Uncle Vernon's wide, purple one. She looked livid.

‘Why were you lurking under our window?’

‘Yes—yes, good point, Petunia! What were you doing under our window, boy?’

‘Listening to the news,’ said Harry in a resigned voice.

His aunt and uncle exchanged looks of outrage.

‘Listening to the news! Again?’

‘Well, it changes every day, you see,’ said Harry.

‘Don't you be clever with me, boy! I want to know what you're really up to—and don't give me any more of this listening to the news tosh! You know perfectly well that your lot—’

‘Careful, Vernon!’ breathed Aunt Petunia, and Uncle Vernon lowered his voice so that Harry could barely hear him,'—that your lot don't get on our news!’

‘That's all you know,’ said Harry.

The Dursleys goggled at him for a few seconds, then Aunt Petunia said, ‘You're a nasty little liar. What are all those—’ she, too, lowered her voice so that Harry had to lip-read the next word, ‘—owls doing if they're not bringing you news?’

‘Aha!’ said Uncle Vernon in a triumphant whisper. ‘Get out of that one, boy! As if we didn't know you get all your news from those pestilential birds!’

Harry hesitated for a moment. It cost him something to tell the truth this time, even though his aunt and uncle could not possibly know how bad he felt at admitting it.

‘The owls ... aren't bringing me news,’ he said tonelessly.

‘I don't believe it,’ said Aunt Petunia at once.

‘No more do I,’ said Uncle Vernon forcefully.

‘We know you're up to something funny,’ said Aunt Petunia.

‘We're not stupid, you know,’ said Uncle Vernon.

‘Well, that's news to me,’ said Harry, his temper rising, and before the Dursleys could call him back, he had wheeled about, crossed the front lawn, stepped over the low garden wall and was striding off up the street.

He was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his aunt and uncle later and pay the price for his rudeness, but he did not care very much just at the moment; he had much more pressing matters on his mind.

Harry was sure the cracking noise had been made by someone Apparating or Disapparating. It was exactly the sound Dobby the house-elf made when he vanished into thin air. Was it possible that Dobby was here in Privet Drive? Could Dobby be following him right at this very moment? As this thought occurred he wheeled around and stared back down Privet Drive, but it appeared to be completely deserted and Harry was sure that Dobby did not know how to become invisible.

He walked on, hardly aware of the route he was taking, for he had pounded these streets so often lately that his feet carried him to his favourite haunts automatically. Every few steps he glanced back over his shoulder. Someone magical had been near him as he lay among Aunt Petunia's dying begonias, he was sure of it. Why hadn't they spoken to him, why hadn't they made contact, why were they hiding now?

And then, as his feeling of frustration peaked, his certainty leaked away.

Perhaps it hadn't been a magical sound after all. Perhaps he was so desperate for the tiniest sign of contact from the world to which he belonged that he was simply overreacting to perfectly ordinary noises. Could he be sure it hadn't been the sound of something breaking inside a neighbour's house?

Harry felt a dull, sinking sensation in his stomach and before he knew it the feeling of hopelessness that had plagued him all summer rolled over him once again.

Tomorrow morning he would be woken by the alarm at five o'clock so he could pay the owl that delivered the Daily Prophet—but was there any point continuing to take it? Harry merely glanced at the front page before throwing it aside these days; when the idiots who ran the paper finally realised that Voldemort was back it would be headline news, and that was the only kind Harry cared about.

If he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from his best friends Ron and Hermione, though any expectation he'd had that their letters would bring him news had long since been dashed.

‘We can't say much about you-know-what, obviously....’ ‘We've been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray....’ ‘We're quite busy but I can't give you details here....’ ‘There's a fair amount going on, we'll tell you everything when we see you....’

But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had scribbled I expect we'll be seeing you quite soon inside his birthday card, but how soon was soon? As far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron's parents’ house. He could hardly bear to think of the pair of them having fun at The Burrow when he was stuck in Privet Drive. In fact, he was so angry with them he had thrown away, unopened, the two boxes of Honeydukes chocolates they'd sent him for his birthday. He'd regretted it later, after the wilted salad Aunt Petunia had provided for dinner that night.

And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn't he, Harry, busy? Hadn't he proved himself capable of handling much more than them? Had they all forgotten what he had done? Hadn't it been he who had entered that graveyard and watched Cedric being murdered, and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed?

Don't think about that, Harry told himself sternly for the hundredth time that summer. It was bad enough that he kept revisiting the graveyard in his nightmares, without dwelling on it in his waking moments too.

He turned a corner into Magnolia Crescent; halfway along he passed the narrow alleyway down the side of a garage where he had first clapped eyes on his godfather. Sirius, at least, seemed to understand how Harry was feeling. Admittedly, his letters were just as empty of proper news as Ron and Hermione's, but at least they contained words of caution and consolation instead of tantalising hints:

‘I know this must be frustrating for you....’ ‘Keep your nose clean and everything will be OK....’ ‘Be careful and don't do anything rash....’

Well, thought Harry, as he crossed Magnolia Crescent, turned into Magnolia Road and headed towards the darkening play park, he had (by and large) done as Sirius advised. He had at least resisted the temptation to tie his trunk to his broomstick and set off for The Burrow by himself. In fact, Harry thought his behaviour had been very good considering how frustrated and angry he felt at being stuck in Privet Drive so long, reduced to hiding in flowerbeds in the hope of hearing something that might point to what Lord Voldemort was doing. Nevertheless, it was quite galling to be told not to be rash by a man who had served twelve years in the wizard prison, Azkaban, escaped, attempted to commit the murder he had been convicted for in the first place, then gone on the run with a stolen hippogriff....

Harry vaulted over the locked park gate and set off across the parched grass. The park was as empty as the surrounding streets. When he reached the swings he sank on to the only one that Dudley and his friends had not yet managed to break, coiled one arm around the chain and stared moodily at the ground. He would not be able to hide in the Dursleys’ flowerbed again. Tomorrow, he would have to think of some fresh way of listening to the news. In the meantime, he had nothing to look forward to but another restless, disturbed night, because even when he escaped the nightmares about Cedric he had unsettling dreams about long dark corridors, all finishing in dead ends and locked doors, which he supposed had something to do with the trapped feeling he had when he was awake. Often the old scar on his forehead prickled uncomfortably, but he did not fool himself that Ron or Hermione or Sirius would find that very interesting any more. In the past, his scar hurting had warned that Voldemort was getting stronger again, but now that Voldemort was back they would probably remind him that its regular irritation was only to be expected ... nothing to worry about ... old news...

The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn't been for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And. his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so hat he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars! How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together without inviting him along, too? How much longer was he supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had returned? These curious thoughts whirled around in Harry's head, and his insides writhed with anger as a sultry, velvety night fell around him, the air full of the smell of warm, dry grass, and the only sound that of the low grumble of traffic on the road beyond the park railings. He did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted his musings and he looked up. The streetlamps from the surrounding roads were casting a misty glow strong enough to silhouette a group of people making their way across the park. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along.

Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakeably his cousin, Dudley Dursley wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang.

Dudley was as vast as ever, but a year's hard dieting and the discovery of a new talent had wrought quite a change in his physique. As Uncle Vernon delightedly told anyone who would listen, Dudley had recently become the Junior Heavyweight Inter-school Boxing Champion of the Southeast. ‘The noble sport', as Uncle Vernon called it, had made Dudley even more formidable than he had seemed to Harry in their primary school days when he had served as Dudley's first punchball. Harry was not remotely afraid of his cousin any more but he still didn't think that Dudley learning to punch harder and more accurately was cause for celebration. Neighbourhood children all around were terrified of him—even more terrified than they were of ‘that Potter boy', who, they had been warned, was a hardened hooligan and attended St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

Harry watched the dark figures crossing the grass and wondered who they had been beating up tonight. Look round, Harry found himself thinking as he watched them. Come on ... look round... I'm sitting here all alone... Come and have a go...

If Dudley's friends saw him sitting here, they would be sure to make a beeline for him, and what would Dudley do then? He wouldn't want to lose face in front of the gang, but he'd be terrified of provoking Harry.... It would be really fun to watch Dudley's dilemma, to taunt him, watch him, with him powerless to respond ... and if any of the others tried hitting Harry, he was ready—he had his wand. Let them try ... he'd love to vent some of his frustration on the boys who had once made his life hell—

But they didn't turn around, they didn't see him, they were almost at the railings. Harry mastered the impulse to call after them.... Seeking a fight was not a smart move.... He must not use magic.... He would be risking expulsion again.

The voices of Dudley's gang died away; they were out of sight, heading along Magnolia Road.

There you go, Sirius, Harry thought dully. Nothing rash. Kept my nose clean. Exactly the opposite of what you'd have done...

He got to his feet and stretched. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon seemed to feel that whenever Dudley turned up was the right time to be home, and any time after that was much too late. Uncle Vernon had threatened to lock Harry in the shed if he came home after Dudley ever again, so, stifling a yawn, and still scowling, Harry set off toward the park gate.

Magnolia Road, like Privet Drive, was full of large, square houses with perfectly manicured lawns, all owned by large, square owners who drove very clean cars similar to Uncle Vernon's. Harry preferred Little Whinging by night, when the curtained windows made patches of jewel-bright colour in the darkness and he ran no danger of hearing disapproving mutters about his ‘delinquent’ appearance when he passed the householders. He walked quickly, so that halfway along Magnolia Road Dudley's gang came into view again; they were saying their farewells at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. Harry stepped into the shadow of a large lilac tree and waited.

‘...squealed like a pig, didn't he?’ Malcolm was saying, to guffaws from the others.

‘Nice right hook, Big D,’ said Piers.

‘Same time tomorrow?’ said Dudley.

‘Round at my place, my parents will be out,’ said Gordon.

‘See you then,’ said Dudley.

‘Bye, Dud!’

‘See ya, Big D!’

Harry waited for the rest of the gang to move on before setting off again. When their voices had faded once more he headed around the corner into Magnolia Crescent and by walking very quickly he soon came within hailing distance of Dudley, who was strolling along at his ease, humming tunelessly.

‘Hey, Big D!’

Dudley turned.

‘Oh,’ he grunted. ‘It's you.’

‘How long have you been “Big D” then?’ said Harry.

‘Shut it,’ snarled Dudley, turning away.

‘Cool name,’ said Harry, grinning and falling into step beside is cousin. ‘But you'll always be “Ickle Diddykins” to me.’

‘I said, SHUT IT!’ said Dudley, whose ham-like hands had curled into fists.

‘Don't the boys know that's what your mum calls you?’

‘Shut your face.’

‘You don't tell her to shut her face. What about “Popkin” and “Dinky Diddydums", can I use them then?’

Dudley said nothing. The effort of keeping himself from hitting Harry seemed to demand all his self-control.

‘So who've you been beating up tonight?’ Harry asked, his grin fading. ‘Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—’

‘He was asking for it,’ snarled Dudley.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘He cheeked me.’

‘Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? ‘Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true...’

A muscle was twitching in Dudley's jaw. It gave Harry enormous satisfaction to know how furious he was making Dudley; he felt as though he was siphoning off his own frustration into his cousin, the only outlet he had.

They turned right down the narrow alleyway where Harry had first seen Sirius and which formed a short cut between Magnolia Crescent and Wisteria Walk. It was empty and much darker than the streets it linked because there were no streetlamps. Their footsteps were muffled between garage walls on one side and a high fence on the other.

‘Think you're a big man carrying that thing, don't you?’ Dudley said after a few seconds.

‘What thing?’

‘That—that thing you are hiding.’

Harry grinned again.

‘Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud? But I s'pose, if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time....’

Harry pulled out his wand. He saw Dudley look sideways at it.

‘You're not allowed,’ Dudley said at once. ‘I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to.’

‘How d'you know they haven't changed the rules, Big D?’

‘They haven't,’ said Dudley, though he didn't sound completely convinced.

Harry laughed softly.

‘You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?’ Dudley snarled.

‘Whereas you just need four mates behind you before you can beat up a ten year old. You know that boxing title you keep banging on about? How old was your opponent? Seven? Eight?’

‘He was sixteen, for your information,’ snarled Dudley, ‘and he was out cold for twenty minutes after I'd finished with him and he was twice as heavy as you. You just wait till I tell Dad you had that thing out—’

‘Running to Daddy now, are you? Is his ickle boxing champ frightened of nasty Harry's wand?’

‘Not this brave at night, are you?’ sneered Dudley.

‘This is night, Diddykins. That's what we call it when it goes all dark like this.’

‘I mean when you're in bed!’ Dudley snarled.

He had stopped walking. Harry stopped too, staring at his cousin.

From the little he could see of Dudley's large face, he was wearing a strangely triumphant look.

‘What d'you mean, I'm not brave when I'm in bed?’ said Harry, Completely nonplussed. ‘What—am I supposed to be frightened of, pillows or something?’

‘I heard you last night,’ said Dudley breathlessly. ‘Talking in your sleep. Moaning.’

‘What d'you mean?’ Harry said again, but there was a cold, plunging sensation in his stomach. He had revisited the graveyard last night in his dreams.

Dudley gave a harsh bark of laughter, then adopted a high-pitched whimpering voice.

‘"Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric!” Who's Cedric—your boyfriend?’

‘I—you're lying,’ said Harry automatically. But his mouth had gone dry. He knew Dudley wasn't lying—how else would he know about Cedric?

‘"Dad! Help me, Dad! He's going to kill me, Dad! Boo hoo!” ’

‘Shut up,’ said Harry quietly. ‘Shut up, Dudley, I'm warning you!’

‘"Come and help me, Dad! Mum, come and help me! He's killed Cedric! Dad, help me! He's going to—” Don't you point that thing at me!’

Dudley backed into the alley wall. Harry was pointing the wand directly at Dudley's heart. Harry could feel fourteen years’ hatred of Dudley pounding in his veins—what wouldn't he give to strike now, to jinx Dudley so thoroughly he'd have to crawl home like an insect, struck dumb, sprouting feelers—

‘Don't ever talk about that again,’ Harry snarled. ‘D'you understand me?’

‘Point that thing somewhere else!’

‘I said, do you understand me?’

‘Point it somewhere else!’

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?’

‘GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—’

Dudley gave an odd, shuddering gasp, as though he had been doused in icy water.

Something had happened to the night. The star-strewn indigo sky was suddenly pitch black and lightless—the stars, the moon, the misty streetlamps at either end of the alley had vanished. The distant rumble of cars and the whisper of trees had gone. The balmy evening was suddenly piercingly, bitingly cold. They were surrounded by total, impenetrable, silent darkness, as though some giant hand had dropped a thick, icy mantle over the entire alleyway, blinding them.

For a split second Harry thought he had done magic without meaning to, despite the fact that he'd been resisting as hard as he could—then his reason caught up with his senses—he didn't have the power to turn off the stars. He turned his head this way and that, trying to see something, but the darkness pressed on his eyes like a weightless veil.

Dudley's terrified voice broke in Harry's ear.

‘W-what are you d-doing? St-stop it!’

‘I'm not doing anything! Shut up and don't move!’

‘I c-can't see! I've g-gone blind! I—’

‘I said shut up!’

Harry stood stock still, turning his sightless eyes left and right. The cold was so intense he was shivering all over; goose bumps had erupted up his arms and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up—he opened his eyes to their fullest extent, staring blankly around, unseeing.

It was impossible.... They couldn't be here.... Not in Little Whinging.... He strained his ears.... He would hear them before he saw them....

‘I'll t-tell Dad!’ Dudley whimpered. ‘W-where are you? What are you d-do—?’

‘Will you shut up?’ Harry hissed, ‘I'm trying to lis—’

But he fell silent. He had heard just the thing he had been dreading.

There was something in the alleyway apart from themselves, something that was drawing long, hoarse, rattling breaths. Harry felt a horrible jolt of dread as he stood trembling in the freezing air.

‘C-cut it out! Stop doing it! I'll h-hit you, I swear I will!’

‘Dudley, shut—’

WHAM!

A fist made contact with the side of Harry's head, lifting him off his feet. Small white lights popped in front of his eyes. For the second time in an hour Harry felt as though his head had been cleaved in two; next moment, he had landed hard on the ground and his wand had flown out of his hand.

‘You moron, Dudley!’ Harry yelled, his eyes watering with pain as he scrambled to his hands and knees, feeling around frantically in the blackness. He heard Dudley blundering away, hitting the alley fence, stumbling.

‘DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!’

There was a horrible squealing yell and Dudley's footsteps stopped. At the same moment, Harry felt a creeping chill behind him that could mean only one thing. There was more than one.

‘DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! Wand!’ Harry muttered frantically, his hands flying over the ground like spiders. ‘Where's—wand—come on—Lumos!’

He said the spell automatically, desperate for light to help him in his search—and to his disbelieving relief, light flared inches from his right hand—the wand tip had ignited. Harry snatched it up, scrambled to his feet and turned around.

His stomach turned over.

A towering, hooded figure was gliding smoothly towards him, hovering over the ground, no feet or face visible beneath its robes, sucking on the night as it came.

Stumbling backwards, Harry raised his wand.

‘Expecto patronum!’

A silvery wisp of vapour shot from the tip of the wand and the Dementor slowed, but the spell hadn't worked properly; tripping over his own feet, Harry retreated further as the Dementor bore down upon him, panic fogging his brain—concentrate—

A pair of grey, slimy, scabbed hands slid from inside the Dementor's robes, reaching for him. A rushing noise filled Harry's ears.

‘Expecto patronum!’

His voice sounded dim and distant.... Another wisp of silver smoke, feebler than the last, drifted from the wand—he couldn't do it any more, he couldn't work the spell.

There was laughter inside his own head, shrill, high-pitched laughter.... He could smell the Dementor's putrid, death-cold breath filling his own lungs, drowning him— Think ... something happy....

But there was no happiness in him ... the Dementor's icy fingers were closing on his throat—the high-patched laughter was growing louder and louder, and a voice spoke inside his head: ‘Bow to death, Harry.... It might even be painless.... I would not know.... I have never died....’

He was never going to see Ron and Hermione again—

And their faces burst clearly into his mind as he fought for breath.

‘EXPECTO PATRONUM!’

An enormous silver stag erupted from the tip of Harry's wand; it's antlers caught the Dementor in the place where the heart should have been; it was thrown backwards, weightless as darkness, and as the stag charged, the Dementor swooped away, bat-like and defeated.

‘THIS WAY!’ Harry shouted at the stag. Wheeling around, he sprinted down the alleyway, holding the lit wand aloft. ‘DUDLEY? DUDLEY!’

He had run barely a dozen steps when he reached them: Dudley was curled up on the ground, his arms clamped over his face. A second Dementor was crouching low over him, gripping his wrists in its slimy hands, prising them slowly, almost lovingly apart, lowering its hooded head towards Dudley's face as though about to kiss him....

‘GET IT!’ Harry bellowed, and with a rushing, roaring sound, the silver stag he had conjured came galloping past him. The Dementor's eyeless face was barely an inch from Dudley's when the silver antlers caught it; the thing was thrown up into the air and, like its fellow, it soared away and was absorbed into the darkness; the stag cantered to the end of the alleyway and dissolved into silver mist.

Moon, stars and streetlamps burst back into life. A warm breeze swept the alleyway. Trees rustled in neighbouring gardens and the mundane rumble of cars in Magnolia Crescent filled the air again.

Harry stood quite still, all his senses vibrating, taking in the abrupt return to normality. After a moment, he became aware that his T-shirt was sticking to him; he was drenched in sweat.

He could not believe what had just happened. Dementors here, in Little Whinging.

Dudley lay curled up on the ground, whimpering and shaking. Harry bent down to see whether he was in a fit state to stand up, but then he heard loud, running footsteps behind him. Instinctively raising his wand again, he span on his heel to face the newcomer.

Mrs. Figg, their batty old neighbour, came panting into sight. Her grizzled grey hair was escaping from its hairnet, a clanking string shopping bag was swinging from her wrist and her feet were halfway out of her tartan carpet slippers. Harry made to stow his wand hurriedly out of sight, but—

‘Don't put it away, idiot boy!’ she shrieked. ‘What if there are more of them around? Oh, I'm going to kill Mundungus Fletcher!’

夏季最热的日子总算快走到了尽头，一种昏昏欲睡的宁静笼罩着女贞路大大的方形的房子。满是灰尘的汽车闪耀着灯停在了那些曾经是翠绿的而现在却变得被烤焦了的黄色的草坪上—因为橡胶管已经不允许用来浇水了。被剥夺了他们通常的洗车与割草的追击后，女贞路的居民回到了他们阴凉的房子里，窗户大开为的是毫无希望的能有一凉风的吹过。只有一个14、5岁的小孩子留在了外面，他躺在女贞路四号花台的外面。

　　他是一个瘦小的，有着一头黑发的带眼镜的男孩，尽管看起来有一点营养不良，他在过去的一段时间中也长高了许多。他的牛仔裤被磨损了而且很脏，他穿的T-SHIRT很皱而且褪了色。他的一只运动鞋上面裂开了口。哈利·波特的外表并不受到他那些喜欢看被别人法律制裁的邻居的喜爱，但是当他今天晚上藏在八仙花灌木后时，那些过路人就看不见他了。事实上，他只有在他的维能姨夫或帕尤妮亚姨妈把头伸出起居室窗外并直接往下面的花台中看时才可能被发现。

　　总的来说，HARRY庆幸自己藏在这里。他也许，躺在这滚烫的、坚硬的土地上，不会很舒服，但从另一方面来说，这里没人会觉着他刺眼，磨着他们的牙齿的声音让他几乎听不见新闻，或者向他质问一些卑劣的问题，这些事在他每次想要在客厅里和他的姨夫姨妈一起看电视时总会发生。

　　几乎就像这样的念头飞进了开着的窗户一样哈利的姨夫，维能·杜斯利突然说话了。

　　“那小子没有再闯进来真好。不过他现在在哪儿？”

　　“不知道”帕尤妮亚姨妈不在意的说，“反正不在房子里。”

　　维能姨夫不耐烦的咕哝着。

　　“看看新闻，”他严厉的说，“我到想知道他到底想要干些什么，一个正常的男孩都会关心新闻上说了些什么-一点也不像达德里！他什么都不知道；简直怀疑他到底知不知道现在的部长是谁！不管怎么说，他那群人的什么事应该不会在我们的新闻上—”

　　“嘘，维能，”帕尤妮亚姨妈说，“窗户开着喃！”

　　“哦，对了，对不起，亲爱的。”

　　杜斯利安静了下来。哈利听到了一阵水果早餐篮的叮当声，他正好看见福格老太太—一个紫藤路的古怪的爱猫的老夫人，慢慢的溜达过来哈利对于自己现在藏在灌木后面感到挺高兴的，因为最近福格太太一在路上看见他就叫他到她那里去喝茶。她拐过了拐角，消失在视线中。维能姨夫的声音又从窗户那里飘了过来。

　　“达德里出去喝茶了吗？”

　　“在珀可凯瑟斯家”，帕尤妮亚姨妈溺爱地说，“他有那么多的小朋友，他真是挺讨人喜欢的。”

　　哈利强压住从鼻孔里发出的笑声。杜斯利真是对他们儿子达德里愚蠢的可怜的信任。他们对于这种在假期里，达德里每天晚上都出去和不同的家伙出去喝茶这种傻子般的谎言深信不疑。哈利对于达德里并没有去哪里喝茶这件事很清楚。达德里和他那一伙人每天晚上都去公园搞破坏，在街角吸烟，对着过路的汽车和小孩扔石头。哈利在他在小围金路散步时看见他们了。他大部分的假期都在街上游逛，从路上的垃圾桶里捡报纸看。

　　预报7点新闻的片头音乐传进了哈利的耳朵里。他的胃翻动了一下。也许今晚—在等待了一个月之后—也许就是今晚。

　　“在西班牙机场行李搬运工的罢工运动进入第2个星期以后，束手无策的度假者人数创记录的塞满了整个机场—”

　　“是我的话，我会让他们永远丢掉饭碗1”维能姨夫在听见播抱员的最后一句话时吼到。但是不管怎么样，在花台外面，哈利的心仿佛被撬开了。如果真有什么事发生了，那将成为头条新闻死亡与破坏当然会比束手无策的度假者重要地多。

　　他慢慢的吐了一口长气，凝视着耀眼的蓝天，这个夏天每天都是一模一样的：紧张、期待、短暂的放松、又是紧张…总是，从来没有停止过，为什么什么事情都没有发生？

　　他继续听着，以防有一些小的线索那些是不会被麻瓜们真正所认识的—一个无法解释的失踪，或者也许，一些奇怪的事故。但行李操作者罢工之后是关于东南方的干旱。“我希望他在门边听着！”（维能姨夫咆哮道，“他和他的洒水装置在早上3点钟要行动起来”然后是一架直升飞机差点在田间与一架萨里式游览马车相撞坠毁，然后是一个著名的女演员与她有名的丈夫的离婚。）“就好象我们对他们那些肮脏的事情感兴趣似的，”帕尤妮亚姨妈轻蔑的说，她那多骨的手在每本杂志上翻过，都好象强迫性的写上了这件事。

　　哈利闭上了眼睛以躲避耀眼的夜空，当新闻播音员说，“最后，Bungy鹦鹉找到了一种新奇的保持凉爽方法，巴恩斯利的 Bungy鹦鹉，学会了水上滑行！玛利多金斯将会找到更多……”

　　哈利睁开了眼睛，如果他们找到了会滑水的相思鹦鹉，那就没有什么再值得听下去的了，他小心的抬起头，利用膝盖和肘部匍匐前进，准备从窗下爬出去。

　　就在他刚刚移动了两英寸，突然一些事发生了。

　　一声很响的，就像是炮击声的劈啪吼叫声打破了睡眠般的宁静一只猫不安地从一辆停着的车下跑出又飞奔不见了，一声尖叫，和一声诅咒的吼叫伴随着瓷器打破的声音从杜斯利的客厅里传出。就好象这是他长久以来等着的信号一样，哈利跳了起来，同时从他的牛仔裤腰带里拔出一根木棒，就好象拔出了一把剑一样—但在他还没有来得及站起来时，他的头顶突然和杜斯利家突然打开的窗户撞上了，撞上的结果使得帕尤妮亚姨妈的叫声更响了。

　　哈利觉得他的头就好象被劈成了两半。他摇晃着，眼睛发花，尽力注意路，并且辨认出噪音的来源，但是当他还没来得及蹒跚着站起来，一双硕大的酱紫色的手从窗户里伸出紧紧的捏住他的喉咙。

　　“把它扔掉！”维能姨夫在他的耳边吼到，“别让人看见！”

　　“放开我！”哈利气喘吁吁的说，他们扭打了几秒钟，哈利用左手尽力推着他姨夫香肠般的手指，右手紧抓住他的魔杖，就好象哈利的头顶给了他一个特别难受的抽动，维能姨夫痛叫着放开了哈利，就好象他突然被电击了一样。一种看不见的力量从他外甥身上释放出来，让他没可能抓住。

　　哈利气喘着向前翻过八仙花灌木，站直并往周围看着。并没有什么迹象说明什么东西导致了噪音的发生，但有一些脸从附近的窗户那里悄悄往这边看。哈利急忙将他的魔杖插回裤腰，并做出无辜的表情。

　　“真是可爱的夜晚！”维能姨夫叫到，并对对门的7号夫人挥着手，她正从家里网状的窗帘那里往外看“你听见刚刚汽车逆火了吗？让我和帕尤妮亚吓了一跳！”

　　他继续咧开嘴展露出一种可怕的笑容，直到所有好奇的邻居都从他们的窗口处消失，然后笑容变成了一种极其愤怒的扭曲，他招手叫哈利回来。

　　哈利向他挪近了几步，小心的站在维能姨夫抓不到的地方，以防维能姨夫伸出手来把他掐死。

　　“你到底在倒什么鬼？小子？”维能姨夫哇哇叫着，声音由于气愤而颤抖着。

　　“我捣鬼做什么？”哈利冷酷地说，仍然在东张西望，想要找出是谁导致了刚才的噪音。

　　“从外面把一个球拍弄的向是一把枪样对着我们—-”

　　“我没有弄出那个声音！”哈利坚定的说。

　　帕尤妮亚姨妈那张瘦长的马脸出现在维能姨夫宽阔的紫脸后面。她看起来很脸色发青。

　　“你刚才为什么潜伏在我们窗户下？”

　　“对，对，好问题，帕尤妮亚，你刚才在我们窗户下做什么？”

　　“听新闻。”哈利用一种听天由命的语气说到。

　　他的姨夫姨妈交换了一下愤怒的眼光。

　　“听新闻？你再说一遍？”

　　“你知道，每天都有新的变化。”哈利说。

　　“在我这别自以为聪明！小子！我要知道你到底在想做什么？别再告诉我听新闻这种胡言乱语。你很清楚你们这群人—-”

　　“小心，维能！”帕尤妮亚姨妈小声地说，于是维能姨夫放低了声音使哈利几乎听不见他在说什么，“你们这群人根本不会听我们的新闻！”

　　“那只是你所知道的，”哈利说。

　　杜斯利瞪着眼睛看了他几秒，然后帕尤妮亚姨妈说，“你这下流的小撒谎精，那些，”他也放低了声音，使得哈利只能从她的口型上认出后面的一些话，“猫头鹰在做什么，为什么没给你带新闻呢？”

　　“啊哈！”维能姨夫用一种洋洋得意的细语说道，“听到了吧！小子，你以为我们不知道你从那些瘟鸟那里得到消息吗？”

　　哈利犹豫了一会儿他必须承认这个事实，尽管他的姨夫姨妈不知道他承认的感觉有多么坏。

　　“猫头鹰—-没有给我带来任何消息。”他沉闷的说。

　　“我不相信！”帕尤妮亚姨妈马上说。

　　“我也不！”维能姨夫激动地说。

　　“我们知道你在计划一些古怪的事。”帕尤妮亚姨妈说。

　　“我们不蠢！”维能姨夫说。

　　“对我来说那可是新闻。”哈利说，他的脾气也上来了，在杜斯利来得及叫他回来前，他跑掉了。穿过前面的草坪，跨过低矮的花墙，大踏步的走上了街。

　　他知道他现在有麻烦了，他知道待会他要面对他的姨夫姨妈，为他的粗鲁付出代价，但他现在不想想那么多，他头脑中有更紧急的事。

　　哈利肯定那个声音是由一个人有组织或没组织的搞出来的。听起来象家养小精灵多比再空气中消失的时候的声音。难道多比现在在女贞路？多比会在这种时候跟着他吗？带着这种想法，他又四周张望，然后顺着女贞路看下去，但是那里什么都没有，哈利确信多比不知道怎么隐形。

　　他继续漫无目的的走，他的脚如此的把他带地神出鬼没，让他把这些路都走的烂熟。每走几步他透过自己的肩膀往后看，他确信在他躺在帕尤妮亚姨妈那些枯死的秋海棠中的时候，有什么魔法的东西在他附近。他们为什么没有对他说话？为什么没有和他接触？为什么他们现在还藏着。

　　然后，他几乎受挫的感觉让他泄气。

　　也许根本就没有什么魔法的东西。也许他是过于想要找到即使是微小的关于他的那个世界的东西，以至于现在弄的他对一点小声音都太敏感了。他能肯定那难道不是邻居家里打破什么东西的声音吗？

　　哈利感觉自己的胃有一种无趣和沉甸甸的感觉，他知道这种毫无希望的感觉在这个夏天已经折磨了他很多次了。

　　明天早上他会伴随5点钟的闹铃起来以便付钱给为他送来预言家日报的猫头鹰—但是会有什么新的消息吗？哈利这些天仅仅只看一眼头版便把报纸扔到一边。只有经营报纸的那个蠢蛋认识到伏地魔已经回来了，把它作为头版头条，那才是哈利感兴趣的。

　　如果他幸运的话，他能收到从他的好友罗恩和荷米恩的猫头鹰，尽管他希望他们能告诉他一些消息，但却不能。

　　我们不能告诉你关于神秘人的事，明显的，我们被告知不能这么做以防我们的猫头鹰落入其他人手里，我们很忙但我们不能在这里告诉你细节，事情会明朗的，我们见面会告诉你所有事情—-

　　但他们什么时候才能见到他？没有人告诉一个确切的日期。荷米恩在给他的生日卡上潦草的写着我希望能尽快见到你，但到底是什么时候？哈利只能从信上很模糊的线索猜到，罗恩和荷米恩在同一个地方，大概在罗恩父母家他简直不能忍受当他被困在这里的时候，他们俩在陋居开心的玩。事实上，他气得把他们在他生日时送给他的两大盒蜂蜜公爵的巧克力开都没开就都给扔了。不过，他后来又有些后悔，因为在那天晚上帕尤妮亚姨妈晚饭时做的干涩的沙拉实在让人难以下咽。

　　还有罗恩和荷米恩到底在忙些？为什么不是他，哈利，在忙呢？他难道没有证明他处理事情的能力强过他们吗？他们已经把他做过的那些事全都忘了吗？难道不是他被带到了墓地，目睹了塞得里克被杀死，而且被捆在墓碑上，甚至差点也被杀死的吗？

　　哈利这个夏天已经第100次告诉自己别那么想了。他在梦中重游目的已经够糟糕了，还有漫无目的的游荡，没有一个安身的地方也够糟了。

　　他在拐角处转了一个弯，到了新月木兰街。就在那条狭小的小巷半路上的车库旁边，他第一次见到了他的教父。至少天狼星，好象能理解哈利的感受。不可否认的，他的信和罗恩还有荷米恩的一样什么也没有说，但至少还有一些安慰性质的警告，比起那些让人着急的线索感觉好多了，我知道这让你感到很失望，照顾好你自己，别多管闲事，事情会好起来的，小心并且别有任何轻率的举动—-

　　好吧，哈利想到，这时他正穿过新月木兰街，走上木兰路，然后向安黑运动公园走去，他已经甚至超过了做到了天狼星建议他事情。他已经尽力压制住自己把行李绑在他的扫帚上，然后自己出发去陋居的欲望了。事实上，他觉得他的行为已经让他感觉到很挫败和生气了：他被那么久的困在女贞路，藏在花圃下指望听到一点关于伏地魔正在做什么的希望也一点一点的减少。还有，让一个被关在巫师监狱阿滋卡班12年，逃出来想要在第一时间把凶手杀死，结果最后不得不骑上一头被偷来的鹰头马身有翼兽逃走的人说教别干轻率的事，实在是让人感到焦躁。

　　哈利弯腰穿过锁着的门，走过炎热的草坪。公园和周围的街道一样空荡荡的。当他走过秋千时，他在那唯一一个没有被达德里和他那一伙毁掉的秋千上坐下，一条手臂盘绕在铁链上，生气的看着地面。他再也不能在得斯里家的花圃下藏着了。明天他得想出点什么新法子听一听新闻。同时，他又会有一个一点也不值得期待的，不平静的，受打扰的夜晚。因为，就算是没有关于塞得里克的噩梦，他也会有做另一个让他不安的梦：穿过长长的，黑黑的走廊，最后全是被锁着的门，这让他在醒着的时候有一种被困住的感觉。他的伤疤也经常会有刺痛的感觉，但他想这已经引不起罗恩、荷米恩或者天狼星的兴趣了。过去，他的伤疤痛是一个伏地魔又强大起来的警告，现在伏地魔已经复活了，他们也许只会告诉他那只是经常生气带来的—-没有担心的——-又是老话。

　　不公平的感觉充满全身，让他想要气恼的大喊。如果不是他的话，没人会知道伏地魔已经回来了。可是他的回报却是让他回到小围金路呆了4个死气沉沉的星期，完全与魔法世界隔绝蹲坐在将死的秋海棠中间听关于会滑水的相思鹦鹉的事！丹伯多怎么能这么轻易的就把他给忘了？为什么罗恩和荷米恩在一起却没有邀请他？多久了，他听天狼星叫他安安静静的坐着，当一个好孩子，并且沉住气不要写信给愚蠢的预言家日报告诉他们伏地魔已经回来了？这些狂怒的想法在哈利的头脑中旋转，他的身体里就象是被闷热的天鹅绒般的气愤给包围着。空气中充满着烤热的干燥的草的气味，唯一的低低的充满抱怨的汽车的声音来自公园栏杆旁边的路上。

　　他不知道他在秋千上坐了多久，直到有声音打断了他的沉思，他抬起头往四周看。周围路上的街灯发出雾蒙蒙的光，照亮了一群正穿过公园的人的侧影。其中的一个正大声地唱着难听的歌，其他人则在大笑。他们正滑行着的昂贵的赛车发出一种轻轻的声音。

　　哈利知道那些人是谁在前面的那个人毫无疑问的是他的表哥，达德里·杜斯利，正在他那群忠实的团伙的陪伴下回家。

　　达德里和过去一样肥大，但是一年艰难的节食和一种新的方法让他的体格产生了巨大的变化。正如维能姨夫高兴的对那些愿意听他讲的人所说的，达德里最近成为了东南地区校际拳击大赛最重量级的冠军。维能姨夫把它叫做是一项贵族运动，这让哈利觉得达德里看起来比当年他在以前的学校里把哈利当作拳击吊球时更可怕。哈利倒不是害怕达德里，他只是觉得达德里非常努力的学拳击并不是因为庆祝或表扬的原因。周围的小孩都害怕达德里—比他们害怕“波特”—他们被严正警告过了，这是一个被送到圣塔不鲁斯安全中心少年犯学校的男孩—更加恐惧。

　　哈利看着黑黑的人影走过了草坪，想知道他们今晚教训的是谁？看四周，哈利觉得他自己这么想到，来啊，看四周，我在这里坐着，来打我试试——-

　　但是他们并没有转过来，他们没有看见他，他们几乎在栏杆那里。哈利制止住叫他们的想法，找打并非一个明智的举动，他不能使用魔法，他会再有被开除的危险。

　　达德里团伙的声音消失了，他们，走向木兰街，消失在视线中。

　　你满意了吧，天狼星，哈利呆滞的想，没有轻率的举动，乖乖的呆着，和你以前做的正相反。

　　他站了起来，伸了个懒腰。帕尤妮亚姨妈和维能姨夫觉得达德里什么时候回家都可以，在他回家以后就什么时候都是太晚了。维能姨夫威胁哈利说如果他再比达德里回家晚就要把他锁在棚屋里，所以，沉闷的打了个哈欠，仍然感到闷闷不乐，哈利走向公园门口。

　　木兰路，跟女贞路一样，到处都是大大的，方形的，有着被修剪得整整齐齐的草地的房子，都属于一个高大的，长的正正方方的人所有，他开着一辆象维能姨夫开的那样干净的车。哈利更喜欢小围金路的晚上，这时挂着窗帘的窗户在黑暗中发出宝石般灿烂的光辉，并且这时也不会他走过住户时有人觉得他违法闯入发出不满意的嘀咕。他走的很快，所以在木兰路半路上他又看见了达德里他们一伙的身影，他们在木兰新月街的入口处互相告别。哈利走到了一棵丁香树的树影里等着。

　　“——他就象一头猪一样叫，不是吗？”马尔科姆说，使其他人哄笑着。

　　“真是绝好的钓钩。”皮尔说。

　　“明天晚上的这个时候怎么样？”达德里说。

　　“到我家来，我爸妈出去了。”葛登说。

　　“那么到时见！”达德里说。

　　“再见。达德里！”

　　“再见，老大！”

　　哈利等到其他人都走了才出来。当他们的声音都再次消退了，他走向拐角，快步走着，很快就走到了离达德里很近的地方—他正在悠闲自得的嗡嗡的哼着不成调的歌。

　　“嘿，老大！”

　　达德里转过身。

　　“哦，是你！”他咕噜的说

　　“你成老大多久了？”哈利说

　　“闭嘴！”达德里咆哮着，走开了。

　　“真酷的名字啊！”哈利说，他笑着走在他表兄的身后，“对于我来说，你永远都是‘心肝达德里’”

　　“我说过了，闭嘴！”达德里说，火腿般的手已经握成了拳头。

　　“那些人知道你妈妈怎么叫你的吗？”

　　“不要脸！”

　　“你不会说她不要脸吧。那么我可以叫你‘心肝达德里’或者‘达德里小乖乖’了？”

　　达德里什么也没说，看来需要让他全力忍受才能忍住不揍哈利。

　　“那你们今晚打的是谁？”哈利问，他的笑容消失了。“另一个10岁的小孩吗？我知道你两天前揍了马克·艾文。”

　　“他活该！”达德里咆哮着说。

　　“是吗？”

　　“他侮辱我！”

　　“是吗？他是说你象一只被教用后腿走路的猪吗？那不是侮辱，达德里，那是事实！”

　　“达德里下巴上的一块肌肉在抖动，这让哈利很满意—他知道这让达德里很生气。他觉得这让他全身的受挫感就像是通过一根吸管传送到他表兄身上去了—这是他唯一发泄的路径了。

　　他们向右转向了狭窄的小路—哈利第一次见到天狼星的地方，那是木兰新月街和紫藤路的一个捷径交叉口。这里空空的而且比他所连接的道路更黑，因为没有路灯。他们的脚步在一边的车库和另一边的栅栏的包围下听起来很沉闷。

　　“认为你自己是一个强人可以隐藏起所有的事，是吗？”达德里停了几秒钟说。

　　“什么事？”

　　“你想藏起来的那件事。”

　　哈利又笑了。

　　“真不像你看起来那么蠢，是吗？达德里？但是我想你没办法一边走路一边说话吧？”

　　他拔出了魔杖，看见达德里往侧面看去。

　　“你不准！”达德里马上说，“我知道你不准！如果你做的话会被那所古怪的学校开除！”

　　“你怎么知道他们没有修改法规吗？老大？”

　　“他们没有！”达德里说，虽然他听起来并不确定。

　　哈利轻轻的笑了。

　　“你没那个东西不可能打倒我，不是吗？”达德里咆哮到。

　　“因此你就需要四个家伙站在你后面，这样你才能打倒一个10岁的小孩么？你知道你的拳击头衔是什么吗？你的对手有多大？7岁？8岁？”

　　“据我的消息，他16岁。”达德里吼叫着，“我打晕他20分钟才醒过来。他有你两个那么重！你等着我叫爸爸把那个东西拿出来———”

　　“又要跑到爸爸那里去了？难道他的心肝乖乖拳击冠军会害怕哈利肮脏的小魔杖？”

　　“晚上没有那么勇敢吧？”达德里讥笑到。

　　“这就是晚上，达德里心肝，这就是我们叫做是晚上的时候。”

　　“我是说你睡觉的时候！”达德里咆哮着说。

　　他站住了，哈利也站住了，看着他的表兄。

　　从达德里模糊的脸上，他看见了一种奇怪的胜利的表情。

　　“你什么意思？我睡觉的时候难道不够勇敢吗？”哈利说，“你以为我怕什么？枕头还是什么？”

　　“我昨天晚上听见了，”达德里屏息着说，“你说梦话了，再呻吟。”

　　“你什么意思？”哈利又说道，但是有一种冰凉的感觉跳进了他的胃里。他昨晚又梦见了墓地。

　　达德里发出一声刺耳的笑声，然后装出一种高音调的呜咽的声音，“别杀塞得里克！别杀塞得里克！谁是塞得里克？你的男朋友吗？”

　　“我——-你说谎！”哈利机械的说但是他的嘴巴发干，他知道达德里没说谎，他还听到了关于塞得里克的其他什么吗？

　　“爸爸，救我！爸爸！他要杀我了！呜~~呜~~”

　　“闭嘴！”哈利平静的说，“闭嘴！达德里！我警告你！”

　　“快来救我！爸爸！快来救我！妈妈！他杀了塞得里克！爸爸！救我！他——你说的难道不是我吗？”

　　达德里靠在小巷的墙上。哈利用魔杖直指着达德里的心脏。哈利可以感觉到14年来对达德里的仇恨撞击着他的每一寸身体—他为何不现在给达德里一击？让达德里倒霉的象一只虫子一样爬回家？让他不能说话，长出昆虫的触须？

　　“不准再说那件事！”哈利吼到，“你明白吗？”

　　“把那东西指别的东西！”

　　“我说，明白了吗？”

　　“指别的东西！”

　　“你明白了吗？”

　　“把那东西从我这里拿开———”

　　达德里气喘吁吁的用一种奇特的发抖的声音说，就好象他被浸到了冰水里。

　　夜空好象出了一点事，撒满靛青色天空的星星突然被涂上了黑色并且失去了光芒—星星，月亮，小巷尽头两边朦胧的路灯消失了，汽车的隆隆声和树木的低语声消失了。温和的夜晚突然变得刺痛犀利的寒冷。他们完全被一种难以渗透的、寂静的黑暗所包围，就好象一只巨大的手将整个小巷用一件厚厚的斗篷给完全盖住了。

　　在一瞬间，哈利以为自己又无意中施展了一些魔法，尽管他努力地克制着。然后他意识到自己错了，他没有熄灭星星的能力，他把头转向这边的路，然后是另一边，想看见什么东西，但是黑暗好象给他的双眼蒙上了一层轻薄的面纱。

　　达德里恐惧的声音传进了哈利的耳朵里，

　　“你—-你在做什么？停——停下来！”

　　“我什么也没做！闭嘴！别动！”

　　“我什么也看不见！我瞎了！我—-”

　　“我说闭嘴！”

　　哈利静静的站着，把他看不见的眼睛转向左边然后右边。寒冷是如此的强烈以至于他全身都在发抖，他手臂上起了鸡皮疙瘩，他颈后的头发全都竖起来了，他把眼睛睁到最大，茫然的看着四周，却什么也没看见。

　　这不可能——-他们不可能在这里——-不可能在小围金路，他紧张的听着，在看见他们以前他可以听见他们—-

　　“我—-我要告诉爸爸—-”达德里呜咽着，“你在哪？你在做什———”

　　“你就不能闭上嘴吗？”哈利嘶嘶地说，“我正在努力听——-”

　　但是他突然沉默了，他听见了他最担心的东西。

　　在小巷里有一些不属于那里的东西，有什么东西正在发出长长的，嘶哑的，喀哒喀哒的呼吸，哈利觉得自己发出一阵恐惧的摇动，就好象他站在冰冷的空气里发抖一样。

　　“停—-停下来！住手！！我会打你！我发誓我会！”

　　“达德里，闭……”

　　乓！

　　一只拳头打在了哈利头上，把他打得站立不稳。他眼冒金星。一个小时里第2次哈利觉得自己的头被劈成了两半，下一秒中，他觉得自己摔到了地上，他的魔杖也脱手了。

　　“你这白痴！达德里！”哈利叫到，他的眼睛因为疼痛充满了泪水，他用手和膝盖在地上爬着。他听见达德里笨拙的跑开了，撞倒了小巷的栅栏，摔倒了。

　　“达德里！回来！你正跑到那东西那儿去！”

　　一声恐惧的尖叫，哈利的脚步停止了。同时，哈利觉得寒冷爬上了他的后背，这只能证明一件事，不止一个。

　　“达德里！把嘴闭上！不管你做什么！把嘴闭上！魔杖！”哈利疯狂的咕噜着，他的手像蜘蛛一样在地上掠过，“在哪？快点—荧光闪烁！”

　　他机械的说着咒语，不顾一切的照亮他想要找的东西，—他觉得不可思议的，魔杖在他右手的几英寸处发光—魔杖头点亮了。哈利一把抓起它，蹒跚的站起来看着四周。

　　他的胃翻绞着。

　　一个高耸的，带着头巾的东西正朝他滑过来，在地上盘旋着，看不见长袍下的脸或者脚，过来时饥渴地在夜里吮吸着。

　　跌跌绊绊的往后退，哈利举起了魔杖。

　　“呼神护卫！”

　　一小缕银色的气体从魔杖端射了出来，摄魂怪慢了下来，但是咒语并没有完全发挥作用。跌跌绊绊的，他在摄魂怪接近他时又往后退，恐惧充满了他的大