Chapter 23 Christmas On The Closed Ward

Was this why Dumbledore would no longer meet Harry's eyes? Did he expect to see Voldemort staring out of them, afraid, perhaps, that their vivid green might turn suddenly to scarlet, with catlike slits for pupils? Harry remembered how the snakelike face of Voldemort had once forced itself out of the back of Professor Quirrell's head and ran his hand over the back of his own, wondering what it would feel like if Voldemort burst out of his skull.

He felt dirty, contaminated, as though he were carrying some deadly germ, unworthy to sit on the Underground train back from the hospital with innocent, clean people whose minds and bodies were free of the taint of Voldemort ... he had not merely seen the snake, he had been the snake, he knew it now ...

A truly terrible thought then occurred to him, a memory bobbing to the surface of his mind, one that made his insides writhe and squirm like serpents.

What's he after, apart from followers?

Stuff he can only get by stealth ... like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time.

I'm the weapon, Harry thought, and it was as though poison were pumping through his veins, chilling him, bringing him out in a sweat as he swayed with the train through the dark tunnel. I'm the one Voldemort's trying to use, that's why they've got guards around me everywhere I go, it's not for my protection, it's for other people's, only it's not working, they can't have someone on me all the time at Hogwarts ... I did attack Mr. Weasley last night, it was me. Voldemort made me do it and he could be inside me, listening to my thought's right now—’

‘Are you all right, Harry, dear?’ whispered Mrs. Weasley, leaning across Ginny to speak to him as the train rattled along through its dark tunnel. ‘You don't look very well. Are you feeling sick?’

They were all watching him. He shook his head violently and stared up at an advertisement for home insurance.

‘Harry, dear, are you sure you're all right?’ said Mrs. Weasley in a worried voice, as they walked around the unkempt patch of grass in the middle of Grimmauld Place. ‘You look ever so pale ... are you sure you slept this morning? You go upstairs to bed right now and you can have a couple of hours of sleep before dinner, all right?’

He nodded; here was a ready-made excuse not to talk to any of the others, which was precisely what he wanted, so when she opened the front door he hurried straight past the trolls-leg umbrella stand, up the stairs and into his and Ron's bedroom.

Here, he began to pace up and down, past the two beds and Phineas Nigellus's empty picture frame, his brain teeming and seething with questions and ever more dreadful ideas.

How had he become a snake? Perhaps he was an Animagus ... no, he couldn't be, he would know ... perhaps Voldemort was an Animagus ... yes, thought Harry, that would fit, he would turn into a snake of course ... and when he's possessing me, then we both transform ... that still doesn't explain how I got to London and back to my bed in the space of about five minutes ... but then Voldemort's about the most powerful wizard in the world, apart from Dumbledore, it's probably no problem at all to him to transport people like that.

And then, with a terrible stab of panic, he thought, but this is insane—if Voldemort's possessing me, I'm giving him a clear view into the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix right now! He'll know who's in the Order and where Sirius is ... and I've heard loads of stuff I shouldn't have, everything Sirius told me the first night I was here ...

There was only one thing for it: he would have to leave Grimmauld Place straightaway. He would spend Christmas at Hogwarts without the others, which would keep them safe over the holidays at least ... but no, that wouldn't do, there were still plenty of people at Hogwarts to maim and injure. What if it was Seamus, Dean or Neville next time? He stopped his pacing and stood staring at Phineas Nigellus's empty frame. A leaden sensation was settling in the pit of his stomach. He had no alternative: he was going to have to return to Privet Drive, cut himself off from other wizards entirely.

Well, if he had to do it, he thought, there was no point hanging around. Trying with all his might not to think how the Dursleys were going to react when they found him on their doorstep six months earlier than they had expected, he strode over to his trunk, slammed the lid shut and locked it, then glanced around automatically for Hedwig before remembering that she was still at Hogwarts—well, her cage would be one less thing to carry—he seized one end of his trunk and had dragged it halfway towards the door when a snide voice said, ‘Running away, are we?’

He looked around. Phineas Nigellus had appeared on the canvas of his portrait and was leaning against the frame, watching Harry with an amused expression on his face.

‘Not running away, no,’ said Harry shortly, dragging his trunk a few more feet across the room.

‘I thought,’ said Phineas Nigellus, stroking his pointed beard, ‘that to belong in Gryffindor house you were supposed to be brave? It looks to me as though you would have been better off in my own house. We Slytherins are brave, yes, but not stupid. For instance, given the choice, we will always choose to save our own necks.’

‘It's not my own neck I'm saving,’ said Harry tersely, tugging the trunk over a patch of particularly uneven, moth-eaten carpet right in front of the door.

‘Oh, I see,’ said Phineas Nigellus, still stroking his beard, ‘this is no cowardly flight—you are being noble.’

Harry ignored him. His hand was on the doorknob when Phineas Nigellus said lazily, ‘I have a message for you from Albus Dumbledore.’

Harry span round.

‘What is it?’

‘"Stay where you are.” ’

‘I haven't moved!’ said Harry, his hand still upon the doorknob. ‘So what's the message?’

‘I have just given it to you, dolt,’ said Phineas Nigellus smoothly. ‘Dumbledore says, “Stay where you are.”’

‘Why?’ said Harry eagerly, dropping the end of his trunk. ‘Why does he want me to stay? What else did he say?’

‘Nothing whatsoever,’ said Phineas Nigellus, raising a thin black eyebrow as though he found Harry impertinent.

Harry's temper rose to the surface like a snake rearing from long grass. He was exhausted, he was confused beyond measure, he had experienced terror, relief, then terror again in the last twelve hours, and still Dumbledore did not want to talk to him!

‘So that's it, is it?’ he said loudly. ‘"Stay where you are”? That's all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those dementors, too! Just stay put while the grown-ups sort it out, Harry! We won't bother telling you anything, though, because your tiny little brain might not be able to cope with it!’

‘You know,’ said Phineas Nigellus, even more loudly than Harry, ‘this is precisely why I loathed being a teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not occurred to you, my poor puffed-up popinjay, that there might be an excellent reason why the Headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused, while feeling hard-done-by, to note that following Dumbledore's orders has never yet led you into harm? No.No, like all young people, you are quite sure that you alone feel and think, you alone recognise danger, you alone are the only one clever enough to realise what the Dark Lord may be planning—’

‘He is planning something to do with me, then?’ said Harry swiftly.

‘Did I say that?’ said Phineas Nigellus, idly examining his silk gloves. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to adolescent agonising ... good-day to you.’

And he strolled to the edge of his frame and out of sight.

‘Fine, go then!’ Harry bellowed at the empty frame. ‘And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!’

The empty canvas remained silent. Fuming, Harry dragged his trunk back to the foot of his bed, then threw himself face down on the moth-eaten covers, his eyes shut, his body heavy and aching.

He felt as though he had journeyed for miles and miles ... it seemed impossible that less than twenty-four hours ago Cho Chang had been approaching him under the mistletoe ... he was so tired ... he was scared to sleep ... yet he did not know how long he could fight it ... Dumbledore had told him to stay ... that must mean he was allowed to sleep ... but he was scared ... what if it happened again?

He was sinking into shadows ...

It was as though a film in his head had been waiting to start. He was walking down a deserted corridor towards a plain black door, past rough stone walls, torches, and an open doorway on to a flight of stone steps leading downstairs on the left ...

He reached the black door but could not open it... he stood gazing at it, desperate for entry ... something he wanted with all his heart lay beyond ... a prize beyond his dreams ... if only his scar would stop prickling ... then he would be able to think more clearly ...

‘Harry,’ said Ron's voice, from far, far away, ‘Mum says dinners ready, but she'll save you something if you want to stay in bed.’

Harry opened his eyes, but Ron had already left the room.

He doesn't want to be on his own with me, Harry thought. Not after what he heard Moody say.

He supposed none of them would want him there any more, now that they knew what was inside him.

He would not go down to dinner; he would not inflict his company on them. He turned over on to his other side and, after a while, dropped back off to sleep. He woke much later, in the early hours of the morning, his insides aching with hunger and Ron snoring in the next bed. Squinting around the room, he saw the dark outline of Phineas Nigellus standing again in his portrait and it occurred to Harry that Dumbledore had probably sent Phineas Nigellus to watch over him, in case he attacked somebody else.

The feeling of being unclean intensified. He half-wished he had not obeyed Dumbledore ... if this was how life was going to be for him in Grimmauld Place from now on, maybe he would be better off in Privet Drive after all.

Everybody else spent the following morning putting up Christmas decorations. Harry could not remember Sirius ever being in such a good mood; he was actually singing carols, apparently delighted that he was to have company over Christmas. Harry could hear his voice echoing up through the floor in the cold drawing room where he was sitting alone, watching the sky growing whiter outside the windows, threatening snow, all the time feeling a savage pleasure that he was giving the others the opportunity to keep talking about him, as they were bound to be doing. When he heard Mrs. Weasley calling his name softly up the stairs around lunchtime, he retreated further upstairs and ignored her.

Around six o'clock in the evening the doorbell rang and Mrs. Black started screaming again. Assuming that Mundungus or some other Order member had come to call, Harry merely settled himself more comfortably against the wall of Buckbeak's room where he was hiding, trying to ignore how hungry he felt as he fed dead rats to the hippogriff. It came as a slight shock when somebody hammered hard on the door a few minutes later.

‘I know you're in there,’ said Hermione's voice. ‘Will you please come out? I want to talk to you.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Harry asked her, pulling open the door as Buckbeak resumed his scratching at the straw-strewn floor for any fragments of rat he may have dropped. ‘I thought you were skiing with your mum and dad?’

‘Well, to tell the truth, skiing's not really my thing,’ said Hermione. ‘So, I've come here for Christmas.’ There was snow in her hair and her face was pink with cold. ‘But don't tell Ron. I told him skiing's really good because he kept laughing so much. Mum and Dad are a bit disappointed, but I've told them that everyone who is serious about the exams is staying at Hogwarts to study. They want me to do well, they'll understand. Anyway,’ she said briskly, ‘let's go to your bedroom, Ron's mum has lit a fire in there and she's sent up sandwiches.’

Harry followed her back to the second floor. When he entered the bedroom, he was rather surprised to see both Ron and Ginny waiting for them, sitting on Ron's bed.

‘I came on the Knight Bus,’ said Hermione airily, pulling off her jacket before Harry had time to speak. ‘Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's and he'd given you all permission to visit. So ...’

She sat down next to Ginny, and the two girls and Ron all looked up at Harry.

‘How're you feeling?’ asked Hermione.

‘Fine,’ said Harry stiffly.

‘Oh, don't lie, Harry,’ she said impatiently. ‘Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's.’

‘They do, do they?’ said Harry, glaring at Ron and Ginny. Ron looked down at his feet but Ginny seemed quite unabashed.

‘Well, you have!’ she said. ‘And you won't look at any of us!’

‘It's you lot who won't look at me!’ said Harry angrily.

‘Maybe you're taking it in turns to look, and keep missing each other,’ suggested Hermione, the corners of her mouth twitching.

‘Very funny,’ snapped Harry, turning away.

‘Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood,’ said Hermione sharply. ‘Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears—’

‘Yeah?’ growled Harry, his hands deep in his pockets as he watched the snow now falling thickly outside. ‘All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it.’

‘We wanted to talk toyou, Harry,’ said Ginny, ‘but as you've been hiding ever since we got back—’

‘I didn't want anyone to talk to me,’ said Harry, who was feeling more and more nettled.

‘Well, that was a bit stupid of you,’ said Ginny angrily, ‘seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels.’

Harry remained quite still as the impact of these words hit him. Then he wheeled round.

‘I forgot,’ he said.

‘Lucky you,’ said Ginny coolly.

‘I'm sorry,’ Harry said, and he meant it. ‘So ... so, do you think I'm being possessed, then?’

‘Well, can you remember everything you've been doing?’ Ginny asked. ‘Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?’

Harry racked his brains.

‘No,’ he said.

‘Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you,’ said Ginny simply. ‘When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there.’

Harry hardly dared believe her, yet his heart was lightening almost in spite of himself.

‘That dream I had about your dad and the snake, though—’

‘Harry, you've had these dreams before,’ Hermione said. ‘You had flashes of what Voldemort was up to last year.’

‘This was different,’ said Harry, shaking his head. ‘I was inside that snake. It was like I was the snake ... what if Voldemort somehow transported me to London—?’

‘One day,’ said Hermione, sounding thoroughly exasperated, ‘you'll read Hogwarts: A History, and perhaps it will remind you that you can't Apparate or Disapparaie inside Hogwarts. Even Voldemort couldn't just make you fly out of your dormitory, Harry.’

‘You didn't leave your bed, mate,’ said Ron. ‘I saw you thrashing around in your sleep for at least a minute before we could wake you up.’

Harry started pacing up and down the room again, thinking. What they were all saying was not only comforting, it made sense ... without really thinking, he took a sandwich from the plate on the bed and crammed it hungrily into his mouth.

I'm not the weapon after all, thought Harry. His heart swelled with happiness and relief, and he felt like joining in as they heard Sirius tramping past their door towards Buckbeak's room, singing ‘God Rest Ye, Merry Hippogriffs’ at the top of his voice.

How could he have dreamed of returning to Privet Drive for Christmas? Sirius's delight at having the house full again, and especially at having Harry back, was infectious. He was no longer their sullen host of the summer; now he seemed determined that everyone should enjoy themselves as much, if not more than they would have done at Hogwarts, and he worked tirelessly in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with their help, so that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognisable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers; magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets; a great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius's family tree from view, and even the stuffed elf-heads on the hall wall wore Father Christmas hats and beards.

Harry awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and Ron already halfway through opening his own, rather larger, pile.

‘Good haul this year,’ he informed Harry through a cloud of paper. ‘Thanks for the Broom Compass, it's excellent; beats Hermione's—she got me a homework planner—’

Harry sorted through his presents and found one with Hermione's handwriting on it. She had given him, too, a book that resembled a diary except that every time he opened a page it said aloud things like: ‘Do it today or later you'll pay!’

Sirius and Lupin had given Harry a set of excellent books entitled Practical Defensive Magic and its Use Against the Dark Arts, which had superb, moving colour illustrations of all the counter-jinxes and hexes it described. Harry flicked through the first volume eagerly; he could see it was going to be highly useful in his plans for the DA. Hagrid had sent a furry brown wallet that had fangs, which were presumably supposed to be an anti-theft device, but unfortunately prevented Harry putting any money in without getting his fingers ripped off. Tonks's present was a small, working model of a Firebolt, which Harry watched fly around the room, wishing he still had his full-size version; Ron had given him an enormous box of Every-Flavour Beans, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the usual hand-knitted jumper and some mince pies, and Dobby a truly dreadful painting that Harry suspected had been done by the elf himself. He had just turned it upside-down to see whether it looked better that way when, with a loud crack, Fred and George Apparated at the foot of his bed.

‘Merry Christmas,’ said George. ‘Don't go downstairs for a bit.’

‘Why not?’ said Ron.

‘Mum's crying again,’ said Fred heavily. ‘Percy sent back his Christmas jumper.’

‘Without a note,’ added George. ‘Hasn't asked how Dad is or visited him or anything.’

‘We tried to comfort her,’ said Fred, moving around the bed to look at Harry's portrait. ‘Told her Percy's nothing more than a humungous pile of rat droppings.’

‘Didn't work,’ said George, helping himself to a Chocolate Frog. ‘So Lupin took over. Best let him cheer her up before we go down for breakfast, I reckon.’

‘What's that supposed to be, anyway?’ asked Fred, squinting at Dobbys painting. ‘Looks like a gibbon with two black eyes.’

‘It's Harry!’ said George, pointing at the back of the picture, ‘says so on the back!’

‘Good likeness,’ said Fred, grinning. Harry threw his new homework diary at him; it hit the wall opposite and fell to the floor where it said happily: ‘If you've dotted the “i"s and crossed the “t"s then you may do whatever you please!’

They got up and dressed. They could hear the various inhabitants of the house calling ‘Merry Christmas’ to one another. On their way downstairs they met Hermione.

Thanks for the book, Harry,’ she said happily. ‘I've been wanting that New Theory of Numerology for ages! And that perfume's really unusual, Ron.’

‘No problem,’ said Ron. ‘Who's that for, anyway?’ he added, nodding at the neatly wrapped present she was carrying.

‘Kreacher,’ said Hermione brightly.

‘It had better not be clothes!’ Ron warned her. ‘You know what Sirius said: Kreacher knows too much, we can't set him free!’

‘It isn't clothes,’ said Hermione, ‘although if I had my way I'd certainly give him something to wear other than that filthy old rag. No, it's a patchwork quilt, I thought it would brighten up his bedroom.’

‘What bedroom?’ said Harry, dropping his voice to a whisper as they were passing the portrait of Sirius's mother.

‘Well, Sirius says it's not so much a bedroom, more a kind of—den,’ said Hermione. ‘Apparently he sleeps under the boiler in that cupboard off the kitchen.’

Mrs. Weasley was the only person in the basement when they arrived there. She was standing at the stove and sounded as though she had a bad head cold as she wished them ‘Merry Christmas', and they all averted their eyes.

‘So, is this Kreacher's bedroom?’ said Ron, strolling over to a dingy door in the corner opposite the pantry. Harry had never seen it open.

‘Yes,’ said Hermione, now sounding a little nervous. ‘Er ... I think we'd better knock.’

Ron rapped on the door with his knuckles but there was no reply.

‘He must be sneaking around upstairs,’ he said, and without further ado pulled open the door. ‘Urgh!’

Harry peered inside. Most of the cupboard was taken up with a very large and old-fashioned boiler, but in the foot of space underneath the pipes Kreacher had made himself something that looked like a nest. A jumble of assorted rags and smelly old blankets were piled on the floor and the small dent in the middle of it showed where Kreacher curled up to sleep every night. Here and there among the material were stale bread crusts and mouldy old bits of cheese. In a far corner glinted small objects and coins that Harry guessed Kreacher had saved, magpie-like, from Sirius's purge of the house, and he had also managed to retrieve the silver-framed family photographs that Sirius had thrown away over the summer. Their glass might be shattered, but still the little black-and-white people inside them peered up at him haughtily, including—he felt a little jolt in his stomach—the dark, heavy-lidded woman whose trial he had witnessed in Dumbledore's Pensieve: Bellatrix Lestrange. By the looks of it, hers was Kreacher's favourite photograph; he had placed it to the fore of all the others and had mended the glass clumsily with Spellotape.

‘I think I'll just leave his present here,’ said Hermione, laying the package neatly in the middle of the depression in the rags and blankets and closing the door quietly. ‘He'll find it later, that'll be fine.’

‘Come to think of it,’ said Sirius, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as they closed the cupboard door, ‘has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?’

‘I haven't seen him since the night we came back here,’ said Harry. ‘You were ordering him out of the kitchen.’

‘Yeah ...’ said Sirius, frowning. ‘You know, I think that's the last time I saw him, too ... he must be hiding upstairs somewhere.’

‘He couldn't have left, could he?’ said Harry. ‘I mean, when you said “out", maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?’

‘No, no, house-elves can't leave unless they're given clothes. They're tied to their family's house,’ said Sirius.

‘They can leave the house if they really want to,’ Harry contradicted him. ‘Dobby did, he left the Malfoy's’ to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterwards, but he still managed it.’

Sirius looked slightly disconcerted for a moment, then said, ‘I'll look for him later, I expect I'll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother's old bloomers or something. Of course, he might have crawled into the airing cupboard and died ... but I mustn't get my hopes up.’

Fred, George and Ron laughed; Hermione, however, looked reproachful.

Once they had eaten their Christmas lunch, the Weasleys, Harry and Hermione were planning to pay Mr. Weasley another visit, escorted by Mad-Eye and Lupin. Mundungus turned up in time for Christmas pudding and trifle, having managed to ‘borrow’ a car for the occasion, as the Underground did not run on Christmas Day. The car, which Harry doubted very much had been taken with the consent of its owner, had been enlarged with a spell like the Weasleys’ old Ford Anglia had once been. Although normally proportioned outside, ten people with Mundungus driving were able to fit into it quite comfortably. Mrs. Weasley hesitated before getting inside—Harry knew her disapproval of Mundungus was battling with her dislike of travelling without magic—but, finally, the cold outside and her children's pleading triumphed, and she settled herself into the back seat between Fred and Bill with good grace.

The journey to St Mungo's was quite quick as there was very little traffic on the roads. A small trickle of witches and wizards was creeping furtively up the otherwise deserted street to visit the hospital. Harry and the others got out of the car, and Mundungus drove off around the corner to wait for them. They strolled casually towards the window where the dummy in green nylon stood, then, one by one, stepped through the glass.

The reception area looked pleasantly festive: the crystal orbs that illuminated St. Mungo's had been coloured red and gold to become gigantic, glowing Christmas baubles; holly hung around every doorway; and shining white Christmas trees covered in magical snow and icicles glittered in every corner, each one topped with a gleaming gold star. It was less crowded than the last time they had been there, although halfway across the room Harry found himself shunted aside by a witch with a satsuma jammed up her left nostril.

‘Family argument, eh?’ smirked the blonde witch behind the desk. ‘You're the third I've seen today ... Spell Damage, fourth floor.’

They found Mr Weasley propped up in bed with the remains of his turkey dinner on a tray on his lap and a rather sheepish expression on his face.

‘Everything all right, Arthur?’ asked Mrs. Weasley, after they had all greeted Mr. Weasley and handed over their presents.

‘Fine, fine,’ said Mr. Weasley, a little too heartily. ‘You—er—haven't seen Healer Smethwyck, have you?’

‘No,’ said Mrs Weasley suspiciously, ‘why?’

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Mr. Weasley airily, starting to unwrap his pile of gifts. ‘Well, everyone had a good day? What did you all get for Christmas? Oh, Harry— this is absolutely wonderful!’ For he had just opened Harry's gift of fuse-wire and screwdrivers.

Mrs. Weasley did not seem entirely satisfied with Mr. Weasley's answer. As her husband leaned over to shake Harry's hand, she peered at the bandaging under his nightshirt.

‘Arthur,’ she said, with a snap in her voice like a mousetrap, ‘you've had your bandages changed. Why have you had your bandages changed a day early, Arthur? They told me they wouldn't need doing until tomorrow.’

‘What?’ said Mr Weasley, looking rather frightened and pulling the bed covers higher up his chest. ‘No, no—it's nothing—it's—I—’

He seemed to deflate under Mrs. Weasley's piercing gaze.

‘Well—now don't get upset, Molly, but Augustus Pye had an idea ... he's the Trainee Healer, you know, lovely young chap and very interested in ... um ... complementary medicine ... I mean, some of these old Muggle remedies ... well, they're called stitches, Molly, and they work very well on—on Muggle wounds—’

Mrs. Weasley let out an ominous noise somewhere between a shriek and a snarl. Lupin strolled away from the bed and over to the werewolf, who had no visitors and was looking rather wistfully at the crowd around Mr. Weasley; Bill muttered something about getting himself a cup of tea and Fred and George leapt up to accompany him, grinning.

‘Do you mean to tell me,’ said Mrs. Weasley, her voice growing louder with every word and apparently unaware that her fellow visitors were scurrying for cover, ‘that you have been messing about with Muggle remedies?’

‘Not messing about, Molly, dear,’ said Mr. Weasley imploringly, ‘it was just—just something Pye and I thought we'd try—only, most unfortunately—well, with these particular kinds of wounds—it doesn't seem to work as well as we'd hoped—’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well ... well, I don't know whether you know what—what stitches are?’

‘It sounds as though you've been trying to sew your skin back together,’ said Mrs. Weasley with a snort of mirthless laughter, ‘but even you, Arthur, wouldn't be that stupid —’

‘I fancy a cup of tea, too,’ said Harry, jumping to his feet.

Hermione, Ron and Ginny almost sprinted to the door with him. As it swung closed behind them, they heard Mrs. Weasley shriek, ‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THAT'S THE GENERAL IDEA?’

‘Typical Dad,’ said Ginny, shaking her head as they set off up the corridor. ‘Stitches ... I ask you ...’

‘Well, you know, they do work well on non-magical wounds,’ said Hermione fairly. ‘I suppose something in that snake's venom dissolves them or something. I wonder where the tearoom is?’

‘Fifth floor,’ said Harry, remembering the sign over the welcomewitch's desk.

They walked along the corridor, through a set of double doors and found a rickety staircase lined with more portraits of brutal-looking Healers. As they climbed it, the various Healers called out to them, diagnosing odd complaints and suggesting horrible remedies. Ron was seriously affronted when a medieval wizard called out that he clearly had a bad case of spattergroit.

‘And what's that supposed to be?’ he asked angrily, as the Healer pursued him through six more portraits, shoving the occupants out of the way.

’ ‘Tis a most grievous affliction of the skin, young master, that will leave you pockmarked and more gruesome even than you are now—’

‘Watch who you're calling gruesome!’ said Ron, his ears turning red.

‘—the only remedy is to take the liver of a toad, bind it tight about your throat, stand naked at the full moon in a barrel of eels’ eyes—’

‘I have not got spattergroit!’

‘But the unsightly blemishes upon your visage, young master—’

‘They're freckles!’ said Ron furiously. ‘Now get back in your own picture and leave me alone!’

He rounded on the others, who were all keeping determinedly straight faces.

‘What floor's this?’

‘I think it's the fifth,’ said Hermione.

‘Nah, it's the fourth,’ said Harry, ‘one more—’

But as he stepped on to the landing he came to an abrupt halt, staring at the small window set into the double doors that marked the start of a corridor signposted SPELL DAMAGE. A man was peering out at them all with his nose pressed against the glass. He had wavy blond hair, bright blue eyes and a broad vacant smile that revealed dazzlingly white teeth.

‘Blimey!’ said Ron, also staring at the man.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Hermione suddenly, sounding breathless. ‘Professor Lockhart.’

Their ex-Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher pushed open the doors and moved towards them, wearing a long lilac dressing gown.

‘Well, hello there!’ he said. ‘I expect you'd like my autograph, would you?’

‘Hasn't changed much, has he?’ Harry muttered to Ginny, who grinned.

‘Er—how are you, Professor?’ said Ron, sounding slightly guilty. It had been Ron's malfunctioning wand that had damaged Professor Lockhart's memory so badly that he had landed in St. Mungo's in the first place, though as Lockhart had been attempting to permanently wipe Harry and Ron's memories at the time, Harry's sympathy was limited.

‘I'm very well indeed, thank you!’ said Lockhart exuberantly, palling a rather battered peacock-feather quill from his pocket. ‘Now, how many autographs would you like? I can do joined-up writing now, you know!’

‘Er—we don't want any at the moment, thanks,’ said Ron, raising his eyebrows at Harry, who asked, ‘Professor, should you be wandering around the corridors? Shouldn't you be in a ward?’

The smile faded slowly from Lockhart's face. For a few moments he gazed intently at Harry, then he said, ‘Haven't we met?’

‘Er ... yeah, we have,’ said Harry. ‘You used to teach us at Hogwarts, remember?’

‘Teach?’ repeated Lockhart, looking faintly unsettled. ‘Me? Did I?’

And then the smile reappeared upon his face so suddenly it was rather alarming.

‘Taught you everything you know, I expect, did I? Well, how about those autographs, then? Shall we say a round dozen, you can give them to all your little friends then and nobody will be left out!’

But just then a head poked out of a door at the far end of the corridor and a voice called, ‘Gilderoy, you naughty boy, where have you wandered off to?’

A motherly-looking Healer wearing a tinsel wreath in her hair came bustling up the corridor, smiling warmly at Harry and the others.

‘Oh, Gilderoy, you've got visitors! How lovely, and on Christmas Day, too! Do you know, he never gets visitors, poor lamb, and I can't think why, he's such a sweetie, aren't you?’

‘We're doing autographs!’ Gilderoy told the Healer with another glittering smile. ‘They want loads of them, won't take no for an answer! I just hope we've got enough photographs!’

‘Listen to him,’ said the Healer, taking Lockhart's arm and beaming fondly at him as though he were a precocious two-year-old. ‘He was rather well known a few years ago; we very much hope that this liking for giving autographs is a sign that his memory might be starting to come back. Will you step this way? He's in a closed ward, you know, he must have slipped out while I was bringing in the Christmas presents, the door's usually kept locked ... not that he's dangerous! But,’ she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘he's a bit of a danger to himself, bless him ... doesn't know who he is, you see, wanders off and can't remember how to get back ... it is nice of you to have come to see him.’

‘Er,’ said Ron, gesturing uselessly at the floor above, ‘actually, we were just—er—’

But the Healer was smiling expectantly at them, and Ron's feeble mutter of ‘going to have a cup of tea’ trailed away into nothingness. They looked at each other helplessly, then followed Lockhart and his Healer along the corridor.

‘Let's not stay long,’ Ron said quietly.

The Healer pointed her wand at the door of the Janus Thickey Ward and muttered, ‘Alohomora.’ The door swung open and she led the way inside, keeping a firm grasp on Gilderoy's arm until she had settled him into an armchair beside his bed.

‘This is our long-term residents’ ward,’ she informed Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny in a low voice. ‘For permanent spell damage, you know. Of course, with intensive remedial potions and charms and a bit of luck, we can produce some improvement. Gilderoy does seem to be getting back some sense of himself; and we've seen a real improvement in Mr. Bode, he seems to be regaining the power of speech very well, though he isn't speaking any language we recognise yet. Well, I must finish giving out the Christmas presents, I'll leave you all to chat.’

Harry looked around. The ward bore unmistakeable signs of being a permanent home to its residents. They had many more personal effects around their beds than in Mr Weasley's ward; the wall around Gilderoy's headboard, for instance, was papered with pictures of himself, all beaming toothily and waving at the new arrivals. He had autographed many of them to himself in disjointed, childish writing. The moment he had been deposited in his chair by the Healer, Gilderoy pulled a fresh stack of photographs towards him, seized a quill and started signing them all feverishly.

‘You can put them in envelopes,’ he said to Ginny, throwing the signed pictures into her lap one by one as he finished them. ‘I am not forgotten, you know, no, I still receive a very great deal of fan mail ... Gladys Gudgeon writes weekly ... I just wish I knew why ...’ He paused, looking faintly puzzled, then beamed again and returned to his signing with renewed vigour. ‘I suspect it is simply my good looks ...’

A sallow-skinned, mournful-looking wizard lay in the bed opposite staring at the ceiling; he was mumbling to himself and seemed quite unaware of anything around him. Two beds along was a woman whose entire head was covered in fur; Harry remembered something similar happening to Hermione during their second year, although fortunately the damage, in her case, had not been permanent. At the far end of the ward flowery curtains had been drawn around two beds to give the occupants and their visitors some privacy.

‘Here you are, Agnes,’ said the Healer brightly to the furry-faced woman, handing her a small pile of Christmas presents. ‘See, not forgotten, are you? And your son's sent an owl to say he's visiting tonight, so that's nice, isn't it?’

Agnes gave several loud barks.

‘And look, Broderick, you've been sent a pot plant and a lovely calendar with a different fancy hippogriff for each month; they'll brighten things up, won't they?’ said the Healer, bustling along to the mumbling man, setting a rather ugly plant with long, swaying tentacles on the bedside cabinet and fixing the calendar to the wall with her wand. ‘And—oh, Mrs. Longbottom, are you leaving already?’

Harry's head span round. The curtains had been drawn back from the two beds at the end of the ward and two visitors were walking back down the aisle between the beds: a formidable-looking old witch wearing a long green dress, a moth-eaten fox fur and a pointed hat decorated with what was unmistakeably a stuffed vulture and, trailing behind her looking thoroughly depressed—Neville.

With a sudden rush of understanding, Harry realised who the people in the end beds must be. He cast around wildly for some means of distracting the others so that Neville could leave the ward unnoticed and unquestioned, but Ron had also looked up at the sound of the name ‘Longbottom', and before Harry could stop him had called out, ‘Neville!’

Neville jumped and cowered as though a bullet had narrowly missed him.

‘It's us, Neville!’ said Ron brightly, getting to his feet. ‘Have you seen—? Lockhart's here! Who've you been visiting?’

‘Friends of yours, Neville, dear?’ said Neville's grandmother graciously, bearing down upon them all.

Neville looked as though he would rather be anywhere in the world but here. A dull purple flush was creeping up his plump face and he was not making eye contact with any of them.

‘Ah, yes,’ said his grandmother, looking closely at Harry and sticking out a shrivelled, clawlike hand for him to shake. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are, of course. Neville speaks most highly of you.’

‘Er—thanks,’ said Harry, shaking hands. Neville did not look at him, but surveyed his own feet, the colour deepening in his face all the while.

‘And you two are clearly Weasleys,’ Mrs. Longbottom continued, proffering her hand regally to Ron and Ginny in turn. ‘Yes, I know your parents—not well, of course—but fine people, fine people ... and you must be Hermione Granger?’

Hermione looked rather startled that Mrs. Longbottom knew her name, but shook hands all the same.

‘Yes, Neville's told me all about you. Helped him out of a few sticky spots, haven't you? He's a good boy,’ she said, casting a sternly appraising look down her rather bony nose at Neville, ‘but be hasn't got his father's talent, I'm afraid to say.’ And she jerked her head in the direction of the two beds at the end of the ward, so that the stuffed vulture on her hat trembled alarmingly.

‘What?’ said Ron, looking amazed. (Harry wanted to stamp on Ron's foot, but that sort of thing is much harder to bring off unnoticed when you're wearing jeans rather than robes.) ‘Is that your dad down the end, Neville?’

‘What's this?’ said Mrs. Longbottom sharply. ‘Haven't you told your friends about your parents, Neville?’

Neville took a deep breath, looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. Harry could not remember ever feeling sorrier for anyone, but he could not think of any way of helping Neville out of the situation.

‘Well, it's nothing to be ashamed of!’ said Mrs. Longbottom angrily. ‘You should be proud, Neville, proud!They didn't give their health and their sanity so their only son would be ashamed of them, you know!’

‘I'm not ashamed,’ said Neville, very faintly, still looking anywhere but at Harry and the others. Ron was now standing on tiptoe to look over at the inhabitants of the two beds.

‘Well, you've got a funny way of showing it!’ said Mrs. Longbottom. ‘My son and his wife,’ she said, turning haughtily to Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny, ‘were tortured into insanity by You-Know-Who's followers.’

Hermione and Ginny both clapped their hands over their mouths. Ron stopped craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Neville's parents and looked mortified.

‘They were Aurors, you know, and very well respected within the wizarding community,’ Mrs Longbottom went on. ‘Highly gifted, the pair of them. I—yes, Alice dear, what is it?’

Neville's mother had come edging down the ward in her nightdress. She no longer had the plump, happy-looking face Harry had seen in Moody's old photograph of the original Order of the Phoenix. Her face was thin and worn now, her eyes seemed overlarge and her hair, which had turned white, was wispy and dead-looking. She did not seem to want to speak, or perhaps she was not able to, but she made timid motions towards Neville, holding something in her outstretched hand.

‘Again?’ said Mrs Longbottom, sounding slightly weary. ‘Very well, Alice dear, very well— Neville, take it, whatever it is.’

But Neville had already stretched out his hand, into which his mother dropped an empty Drooble's Best Blowing Gum wrapper.

‘Very nice, dear,’ said Neville's grandmother in a falsely cheery voice, patting his mother on the shoulder.

But Neville said quietly, ‘Thanks, Mum.’

His mother tottered away, back up the ward, humming to herself. Neville looked around at the others, his expression defiant, as though daring them to laugh, but Harry did not think he'd ever found anything less funny in his life.

‘Well, we'd better get back,’ sighed Mrs. Longbottom, drawing on long green gloves. ‘Very nice to have met you all. Neville, put that wrapper in the bin, she must have given you enough of them to paper your bedroom by now.’

But as they left, Harry was sure he saw Neville slip the sweet wrapper into his pocket.

The door closed behind them.

‘I never knew,’ said Hermione, who looked tearful.

‘Nor did I,’ said Ron rather hoarsely.

‘Nor me,’ whispered Ginny.

They all looked at Harry.

‘I did,’ he said glumly. ‘Dumbledore told me but I promised I wouldn't tell anyone ... that's what Bellatrix Lestrange got sent to Azkaban for, using the Cruciatus Curse on Neville's parents until they lost their minds.’

‘Bellatrix Lestrange did that?’ whispered Hermione, horrified. ‘That woman Kreacher's got a photo of in his den?’

There was a long silence, broken by Lockhart's angry voice.

‘Look, I didn't learn joined-up writing for nothing, you know!’

这就是丹伯多为什么不再愿意与哈利对视的原因吗？他认为会在哈利的眼睛中看到伏地魔的凝视？也许，他担心那鲜绿色的眼睛会突然变成猩红色，然后象猫一样眯向学生？哈利想起，有一次伏地魔是怎样强行把它的蛇脸从奎勒尔教授的后脑勺上伸出来，然后把奎勒尔教授的手扭到背后的。哈利惶惑地想，如果伏地魔从自己的头盖骨中冒出，会是一种什么感觉。

　　他感到自己被污染了，很肮脏，就象携带了致命的细菌，根本不配与这些身心都没有受到伏地魔玷污的清白无辜的人们一起坐在这列从医院开回来的地铁上。他不但已经看到过那蛇，而且自己就是那条蛇，现在他明白了。

　　他突然产生了一种真的很可怕的想法，一段记忆浮现在他的脑海中，使他觉得似乎身体内有一条蛇在翻滚和蠕动。

　　他接下来该怎么办，摆脱这个寄生者？

　　伏地魔只能通过秘密行动来得到他要的东西，就象一件武器。那是他上次没有得到过的。

　　我就是这武器，哈利暗自思量道，他感到仿佛有一剂毒药流窜在他的血管中，使他浑身发冷，令他在随着火车晃动着穿过黑暗的隧道时大汗淋漓。我是伏地魔想要利用的人，因此，无论我去任何地方，他们都会派人守卫着我，这并不是为了保护我，而是为了保护别人。只是这并不起作用，在霍格沃兹我身边不可能永远有人守卫。昨晚确实是我袭击了威斯里先生，是的，是我。是伏地魔使我这么做的，他也许在我体内，现在正倾听着我的想法……

　　"你没事吧？亲爱的哈利。" 在火车"卡嗒卡嗒"地穿过漆黑的隧道时威斯里太太斜过身子，隔着金妮对哈利轻声说道，"你看起来不大对头，你病了吗？"他们都朝他看去，他使劲摇了摇头，然后便目不转睛地看起一张家庭保险的广告来。

　　"哈利，你确定你没事？" 当他们绕过Grimmauld Place 中央那片零星的草地时，威斯里太太不安地询问哈利，"你的脸色更苍白了，你今天早上真的睡着过？现在到晚餐时间还有几个小时的时间，上楼睡个好觉吧，好吗？"他点点头，现在这儿有个现成的借口可以避免跟别人交谈了，这正是他所希望的。因此当她打开前门的时候，他赶忙径直绕过旋转伞架，走上楼，进了他和罗恩的卧室。

　　他开始在屋里来回地踱步。走过了两张床和Phineas Nigellus的空画架后，他的大脑被无数的问题和一些更可怕的想法填得满满的，像是要炸开了似的。

　　他怎么会变成一条蛇呢？也许他是个Animagus。不，那是不可能的，否则的话他会知道。也许伏地魔是个Animagus。是的，哈利想，这就对了，他当然可以变成一条蛇。然后当我被他控制时，我们都变形了。但这也不能解释我为什么会能在去伦敦，并又在五分钟后返回这儿的事啊。但伏地魔算得上是世界上最强大的巫师之一，在这远离丹伯多的地方对人施瞬间转移的法术对他来说应该是小菜一碟。

　　那么，他的心猛地一揪，他想：虽然这个想法也许很荒谬，但如果伏地魔控制了我，他就会利用我，从而对凤凰令总部了如指掌！他会知道是谁在发号施令，他也会知道天狼星的所在。我已经听了很多我不该听的东西，我来这儿的第一个晚上，天狼星告诉我的那一切都是。

　　现在他只有一种选择：他只能立即离开Grimmauld Place。他将在霍格沃兹独自度过圣诞节，没有众人的陪伴，这至少能让他们在节日平安。但是，那也没用，霍格沃兹还有足够多的人能供他伤害、袭击。如果下次遇袭的是Seamus、Dean或Neville呢？他停下步子，凝视着Phineas Nigellus的空画架。有一种沉重的感觉郁积在他的心中。他别无选择：他要回女贞路，完全地脱离魔法界。

　　是的，如果他不得不这样做的话，他想，就不能再犹豫不决了。他尽量不去想当Dursleys一家看到他比预计的要提前六个月出现在门口时，他们会怎样反应。他大踏步走到他的行李箱边，"砰"地关上箱子并将它锁上，他机械地向周围扫视，搜寻着Hedwig，然后才想起它现在仍然呆在霍格沃兹。好的，他可以少带一个笼子了。他抓起箱子的一端，拖着它向门走去，此时，一个声音嘲讽道："我们要潜逃吗？"他四处张望，Phineas Nigellus出现在他肖像的帆布上，斜倚着画框，满脸滑稽地看着哈利。

　　"不是潜逃，不是。"哈利简要地说，同时又拖着他的行李箱穿过房间走了几步。

　　Phineas Nigellus抚着他尖尖的胡须说，"我原来以为，作为属于Gryffindor学院的一员，你应该被认为是勇敢的。在我看来，似乎你在我屋里的表现本来应该更好。我们Slytherins是勇敢的，没错，但是并不愚蠢。例如，面对选择，我们总是选择保住自己的生命。""我现在并不是在保自己的命，"哈利一语带过，用力地把行李箱拖过门边一片极不平坦的、虫蛀的地毯。

　　"哦，我知道了，" Phineas Nigellus仍然抚着他的胡须，"这当然不算胆怯的逃亡—你在表现你的高尚啊。"哈利不理他。当哈利握住门把手的时候，Phineas Nigellus懒洋洋地说道："阿尔巴斯·丹伯多让我带个口信给你。"哈利转过身子：

　　"他怎么说？"

　　"'呆着别动。'"

　　"我没有动！"哈利说，他的手仍然抓着门把，"现在你可以把他的口信告诉我了吧。""我刚刚不是已经告诉你了吗，笨蛋，" Phineas Nigellus平静地说道，"丹伯多说'呆着别动。'""为什么？"哈利放下行李箱，急切地询问道， "为什么他要让我呆在这儿？他还说了别的什么吗？""什么也没有。" Phineas Nigellus扬了扬他那稀疏的眉毛，似乎觉得哈利是无关紧要的。

　　哈利再也控制不住情绪的外露，就象蛇头在草丛中高高扬起。他已经疲惫透了，又迷惑得不能再迷惑。他经历了恐怖、被解救、最后的十二个小时又再度陷入恐怖，但丹伯多仍然不想跟他交谈。

　　"就这么句话，是吗？"他大声地说，"'呆着别动。'！在我被Dementors袭击后每个人都这么对我说！'哈利，在大人们解决此事以前呆在原位别动！我们不会费心告诉你任何事，因为你的小脑瓜会应付不来的'！""你要知道，" Phineas Nigellus的声音压过了哈利，"这正是我讨厌成为老师的原因，该死的年轻人总是确信他们所做的任何事都是绝对正确的。你这可怜的骄傲家伙，难道你就从来没有想到，霍格沃兹的校长之所以不把他计划中的所有细节都告诉你，是有其极佳的理由的吗？当你感到受到不公正待遇时，你从来没有停下来想一下，是不是只要按丹伯多的命令去做就永远不会使你自己受到伤害。没有，没有，就像所有的年轻人一样，你太相信只有你才有感觉和思想，只有你才能识别危险，只有你才是唯一聪明到足以知道黑巫师可能正在计划着的事……""那么，他正在计划着和我有关的什么事吗？"哈利即刻问道。

　　"我这样说了吗？" Phineas Nigellus懒懒地检查他的丝绸手套，"现在，请原谅，我有更重要的事要做，没有时间听青春期少年的烦恼了，祝你日安！"他悠闲地走到他的画框边，从哈利的视野中消失了。

　　"好极了，你滚吧！"哈利向空画框吼道，"告诉丹伯多我一点儿都不感激他！"空画布保持着沉寂。哈利窝着一肚子火，把行李箱拖回床脚，就势俯倒在虫蛀的箱盖上，闭上眼睛，他感到全身又沉重又疼痛。

　　他感到像是走了很远很远的路。难以想象就在不到二十四小时前，Cho Chang还曾在槲寄生下靠近过他（在槲寄生下可以亲吻任何人并不被责怪：硕鼠）。他太累了。他不敢睡，但他不知道自己能坚持多久。丹伯多告诉他呆着别动，那一定也就是说他可以睡觉，但他还是感到恐惧。如果那种事再发生呢？

　　他沉没在阴暗中。

　　他的头脑中似乎有一场电影等待着开映。他正穿过一条荒凉的走廊，经过粗糙的石墙，绕过火炬，走下石阶，向着一扇普通的黑门走去。

　　他到了黑门前，但怎么也打不开它。他站着凝视它，不顾一切地想要进去。他全心全意想要得到的东西就在那后面，是一个他梦中的奖品。要是他的伤疤会停止刺痛的话就好了，那他就可以更清晰地思考了。

　　"哈利，"罗恩的声音，从很远很远的地方传来，"妈妈说晚餐已经准备好了，但是如果你还想睡的话她会为你保留一些的。"哈利睁开了眼睛，但是罗恩已经离开了房间。

　　"他不想看见我，"哈利想，"在他听到Moody的话以后。"他设想他们中没有人会希望他再在这儿呆下去了，因为现在他们已经知道他体内潜藏着什么。

　　他不会下去用餐的；他不会陪伴在他们左右。他翻了个身，不一会，便再度睡去。他起来得很晚，已经是清晨了，他的身心因饥饿和邻床罗恩的鼾声感到疼痛不堪。环顾房间四周，他看到了Phineas Nigellus黑暗的轮廓再次站在他的肖像上，这令哈利想到丹伯多也许派了Phineas Nigellus来监视他，以免他再去袭击别人。

　　一种不明的情绪在增长着。他有点希望他不曾服从过丹伯多。如果这就是此后他在Grimmauld Place的生活，也许他应该离开这里回到女贞路。

　　*

　　其他所有人都把整个早晨花在制作圣诞节装饰品上。哈利想不起来天狼星以前什么时候有过如此好的兴致。事实上，天狼星正在唱圣诞颂歌，显然他很高兴有人陪他过圣诞节。寒冷的客厅里只坐着哈利一个人，哈利可以听到天狼星歌声的回音。看着窗外的天空变得越发苍白，雪花飘飞下来，他感到他正给他们一个不停地谈论他的机会，一想到这里，他就感到一种残忍的快乐。当他听到威斯里夫人在午餐时间在楼下轻柔的叫着他的名字时，他向楼上退了几步，不理她。

　　晚上六点左右，门铃响了，Black夫人又开始尖叫起来。躲藏在Buckbeak的屋子里的哈利猜想Mundungus或者其他的成员已经来过了，他动了一下，以便让自己靠着墙坐得更舒服点。他用死老鼠喂饲着Hippogriff，试图不理睬他自己有多么饥饿。当有人在几分钟后大声敲门时，哈利吃了一惊。

　　"我知道你在里面，" 那是荷米恩的声音，"请你出来，我想跟你谈一谈。""你在这儿干什么？"哈利一边问，一边打开了门。这时Buckbeak正重新开始在铺满稻草的地板上搜寻是否有被它漏掉的老鼠肉。"我还以为你现在正在和你爸爸妈妈一起滑雪呢。""好吧，说实话，其实滑雪并不是我的事，" 荷米恩说，"因此，我到这儿来过圣诞节。"她的头上布满了雪花，脸被冻得通红："但别告诉罗恩。因为罗恩老是在笑，所以我跟他说滑雪真好。我的父母有点失望，但是我告诉他们所有重视考试的人现在都呆在霍格沃兹学习。他们希望我好，他们会明白的。不管怎样，" 她精神奕奕地说，"让我们去你的卧室吧。罗恩的母亲在那里生了火，并且派发三明治。

　　哈利跟着她回到三楼，当他进入卧室时，他惊讶地看到罗恩和金妮都坐在罗恩的床上等他们。

　　"我是搭Knight公共汽车来的，" 荷米恩欢快地说，一边在哈利有时间说话前脱下她的夹克，"丹伯多早上告诉我今天一大早发生了什么事情，但是我得等到学期正式结束才出发，尽管丹伯多已经向Umbridge说明威斯里夫人在St Mungo并且你们已经得到许可去拜访，Umbridge仍然因你们这帮人从她眼皮底下溜走而感到恼火。"她坐到金妮身边，她们两个女孩和罗恩都看向哈利。

　　"你感觉怎么样？" 荷米恩问。

　　"很好，" Harry面无表情。

　　"噢，别撒谎了，哈利，"她不耐烦地说，"罗恩和金妮说你自从从St Mungo回来后就躲着所有人。""他们这么说？"哈利对罗恩和金妮怒目而视。罗恩低下头看着自己的叫，但是金妮看上去却若无其事。

　　"你就是这么做的！"她说，"你根本不想看到我们中的任何人！""是你们这帮家伙不想看到我！"哈利怒冲冲地说。

　　"也许你们都想看到对方，只是都错过了机会。" 荷米恩说，她的嘴角颤搐着。 "真可笑。"哈利猛地说道，转身走了。

　　"噢，停止一切误解吧！" 荷米恩急忙说道，"听着，已经有人告诉了我你昨晚用窃听耳朵偷听到了什么""是吗？"哈利咆哮道，当他看到外面的雪花飞快地落下时，他把手深埋入自己的衣兜里，"都在谈论我，不是吗？哼，我正在让自己习惯这一切。""我们想跟你谈谈，哈利。"金妮说，"但你从我们回来时一直躲到现在……""我不想跟任何人说话，"哈利感到越来越烦恼。

　　"嘿，那就是你有点儿蠢的地方！"金妮愤怒地说道，"要知道，除我之外你不认识任何被那个人控制过的人，只有我可以告诉你被控制时的感受！"哈利一言不发，任凭这些词语狠狠地撞击着他。

　　"我忘了。"他说。

　　"你很幸运。"金妮不动声色地说。

　　"对不起，"哈利很认真地说，"原来这样。那么，你认为我被那个人控制了吗？""嗯，你能否记得你做过的所有事？"金妮问，"你的记忆中是否有长时间段的空白，你不知道自己在那段时间里做过什么？"哈利努力地在大脑中搜索着。

　　"没有。"他说。

　　"那么那个人还没有控制你。"金妮轻描淡写地说，"当他那样对我做的时候，我每次都有一段时间想不起来在前几个小时中我做过什么，我会发现我在某个地方，但我不知道我是怎样到那里的。"哈利几乎不敢相信她，但不由自主地心里感到亮堂了。

　　"我做的关于你父亲和那条蛇的梦，虽然……""哈利，你以前早就做过这种梦，" 荷米恩说，"去年你的脑海里就闪现过伏地魔在做什么的场景。""这次不一样，"哈利摇着头说，"我在那条蛇体内。那感觉就象我就是那条蛇。如果是伏地魔为了某种目的把我瞬间转移到伦敦……"荷米恩十分恼火，"当你在某天读到《霍格沃兹，一段校史》时，那或者会提醒你，你无法在霍格沃兹突然出现或突然消失。甚至连伏地魔也不能令你飞离你的宿舍，哈利。""你没有离开过你的床，伙计，"罗恩说，"在我们能够叫醒你之前我至少看到你在睡梦中翻来覆去有一分钟之久。"哈利又开始在屋子里一边来回踱步，一边思考起来。他们所说的一切不仅让他感到安慰，还真有其意义。不及细想，他就从床上的盘子里拿了块三明治，饥饿难耐地将它塞进嘴里。

　　我到底不是他的武器，哈利想道。他的心里充满了幸福和释然，他想重新回到他伙伴们的队伍。

　　天狼星大步经过他们的门，走向Buckbeak的屋子，放开了嗓子，一路欢歌："上帝使你们宁静, Hippogriffs快乐"*

　　他怎么会曾想要回到女贞路过圣诞节呢？天狼星因房子里又聚满了人而深感喜悦，尤其是哈利的归来更加深了这种喜悦，使它极富感染力。他不再是他们夏天的那个闷闷不乐的屋主了；他现在坚决认为每个人都应该像他一样快乐，至少不能比他们在霍格沃兹感受的的快乐要少。他不知疲倦的做着圣诞节前的准备工作，在他们的帮助下打扫并装饰屋子，因此，他们在平安夜上床睡觉时，整间屋子已经焕然一新，几乎让人认不出来。和失去光泽的灯饰悬挂在一起的不再是层层蛛丝，而是花环和冬青树以及金银彩带。成堆的雪花不可思议的在破旧的地毯上闪闪发光。Mundungus弄到的一株巨大的圣诞树被仙女装点一新，遮住了天狼星的家树。甚至连大厅里的stuffed elf-heads也被戴上了圣诞老人的帽子和胡须。

　　哈利在圣诞节的早晨醒来后，发现他床脚有一大堆礼物。罗恩已经把他自己的礼物拆开了一半，比哈利的更多，是成堆的。

　　"Good haul this year，"他隔了一大堆纸片向哈利祝福。"太感谢Broom Compass了，这真好；欠揍的荷米恩，她送给我一个家庭作业笔记本。"哈利把他的礼物分了类，并发现其中一个上有荷米恩s的笔迹，她也送了他一份，那是一本很像日记的书，除了每翻一页它就会这么大声说："今天的事今天做，不然你今后仍要补做。"天狼星和卢平送了哈利一套极棒的书，书名是《防御魔法实例》和《用于黑魔法防御》。它们有华丽的封面以及其中记述的所有魔法和法物的彩色活动图解，哈利急切的翻开第一册，他可以看到它将对他的DA计划起很高的实用价值。Hagrid送了一只有齿的棕色皮毛做的皮夹，大概是为了防止被偷窃，但不幸的是，这样一来，哈利也无法在不撕裂自己手指的情况下把钱放进去。Tonkss的礼物是一个小型的Firebolt 活动模型，他看着它在房间里飞来飞去，心中祈祷着希望自己仍能保有完整的version。罗恩送了他一只巨大的Every-Flavour Beans盒子。威斯里夫妇像往常一样赠送了自己织的外套和碎馅饼。多比送了一幅着实可怕的画像，以至于哈利怀疑那是否是Elf的真迹。他拿着它颠来倒去地查看着以找出它怎么放置看起来比较顺眼。这时，随着一记响亮的爆裂声，Fred和George出现在他床脚边。

　　"圣诞快乐，" George说，"别经常下楼。"

　　"为什么？"罗恩问道。

　　"妈妈又在大喊大叫了，" Fred大声说，"Percy把他收到的圣诞外衣退还给了妈妈。""没有来一封短信，" George补充道，"也没有问候爸爸一声，也没有去看看他或者做些别的什么。""我们试图安慰她，告诉她Percy不过是堆巨大的老鼠粪。" Fred边说边围着床走动以便观看哈利手中的肖像，"但那没用，" George说着把一块巧克力蛙塞进自己嘴里，"所以卢平现在正在安慰他。最好他能在我们下楼吃早餐前让她重新打起精神来。"“不管怎样，告诉我那到底是什么？” Fred斜视着Dobby的画作，问哈利，“看上去好象是长着一对黑眼睛的长臂猿。”

　　“那是哈利！” George画的背面，“背面这么写着。”

　　“真太像了！” Fred大笑起来，哈利把