Chapter 26 Seen And Unforseen

Luna said vaguely that she did not know how soon Rita's interview with Harry would appear in The Quibbler, that her father was expecting a lovely long article on recent sightings of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, ‘—and of course, that'll be a very important story, so Harry's might have to wait for the following issue,’ said Luna.

Harry had not found it an easy experience to talk about the night when Voldemort had returned. Rita had pressed him for every little detail and he had given her everything he could remember, knowing that this was his one big opportunity to tell the world the truth. He wondered how people would react to the story. He guessed that it would confirm a lot of people in the view that he was completely insane, not least because his story would be appearing alongside utter rubbish about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. But the breakout of Bellatrix Lestrange and her fellow Death Eaters had given Harry a burning desire to do something, whether or not it worked ...

‘Can't wait to see what Umbridge thinks of you going public,’ said Dean, sounding awestruck at dinner on Monday night. Seamus was shovelling down large amounts of chicken and ham pie on Dean's other side, but Harry knew he was listening.

‘It's the right thing to do, Harry,’ said Neville, who was sitting opposite him. He was rather pale, but went on in a low voice, ‘It must have been ... tough ... talking about it ... was it?’

‘Yeah,’ mumbled Harry, ‘but people have got to know what Voldemort's capable of, haven't they?’

‘That's right,’ said Neville, nodding, ‘and his Death Eaters, too ... people should know ...’

Neville left his sentence hanging and returned to his baked potato. Seamus looked up, but when he caught Harry's eye he looked quickly back at his plate again. After a while, Dean, Seamus and Neville departed for the common room, leaving Harry and Hermione at the table waiting for Ron, who had not yet had dinner because of Quidditch practice.

Cho Chang walked into the Hall with her friend Marietta. Harry's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch, but she did not look over at the Gryffindor table, and sat down with her back to him.

‘Oh, I forgot to ask you,’ said Hermione brightly, glancing over at the Ravenclaw table, ‘what happened on your date with Cho? How come you were back so early?’

‘Er ... well, it was ...’ said Harry, pulling a dish of rhubarb crumble towards him and helping himself to seconds, ‘a complete fiasco, now you mention it.’

And he told her what had happened in Madam Puddifoot's teashop.

‘... so then,’ he finished several minutes later, as the final bit of crumble disappeared, ‘she jumps up, right, and says, “I'll see you around, Harry,” and runs out of the place!’ He put down his spoon and looked at Hermione. ‘I mean, what was all that about? What was going on?’

Hermione glanced over at the back of Cho's head and sighed.

‘Oh, Harry,’ she said sadly. ‘Well, I'm sorry but you were a bit tactless.’

‘Me, tactless?’ said Harry, outraged. ‘One minute we were getting on fine, next minute she was telling me that Roger Davies asked her out and how she used to go and snog Cedric in that stupid teashop—how was I supposed to feel about that?’

‘Well, you see,’ said Hermione, with the patient air of someone explaining that one plus one equals two to an over-emotional toddler, ‘you shouldn't have told her that you wanted to meet me halfway through your date.’

‘But, but,’ spluttered Harry, ‘but—you told me to meet you at twelve and to bring her along, how was I supposed to do that without telling her?’

‘You should have told her differently,’ said Hermione, still with that maddeningly patient air. ‘You should have said it was really annoying, but I'd made you promise to come along to the Three Broomsticks, and you really didn't want to go, you'd much rather spend the whole day with her, but unfortunately you thought you really ought to meet me and would she please, please come along with you and hopefully you'd be able to get away more quickly. And it might have been a good idea to mention how ugly you think I am, too,’ Hermione added as an afterthought.

‘But I don't think you're ugly,’ said Harry, bemused.

Hermione laughed.

‘Harry, you're worse than Ron ... well, no, you're not,’ she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. ‘Look—you upset Cho when you said you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her.’

‘Is that what she was doing?’ said Harry, as Ron dropped onto the bench opposite them and pulled every dish within reach towards him. ‘Well, wouldn't it have been easier if she'd just asked me whether I liked her better than you?’

‘Girls don't often ask questions like that,’ said Hermione.

‘Well, they should!’ said Harry forcefully. ‘Then I could've just told her I fancy her, and she wouldn't have had to get herself all worked up again about Cedric dying!’

‘I'm not saying what she did was sensible,’ said Hermione, as Ginny joined them, just as muddy as Ron and looking equally disgruntled. ‘I'm just trying to make you see how she was feeling at the time.’

‘You should write a book,’ Ron told Hermione as he cut up his potatoes, ‘translating mad things girls do so boys can understand them.’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry fervently, looking over at the Ravenclaw table. Cho had just got up, and, still not looking at him, she left the Great Hall. Feeling rather depressed, he looked back at Ron and Ginny. ‘So, how was Quidditch practice?’

‘It was a nightmare,’ said Ron in a surly voice.

‘Oh come on,’ said Hermione, looking at Ginny, ‘I'm sure it wasn't that—’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Ginny. ‘It was appalling. Angelina was nearly in tears by the end of it.’

Ron and Ginny went off for baths after dinner; Harry and Hermione returned to the busy Gryffindor common room and their usual pile of homework. Harry had been struggling with a new star-chart for Astronomy for half an hour when Fred and George turned up.

‘Ron and Ginny not here?’ asked Fred, looking around as he pulled up a chair, and when Harry shook his head, he said, ‘Good. We were watching their practice. They're going to be slaughtered. They're complete rubbish without us.’

‘Come on, Ginny's not bad,’ said George fairly, sitting down next to Fred. ‘Actually, I dunno how she got so good, seeing how we never let her play with us.’

‘She's been breaking into your broom shed in the garden since the age of six and taking each of your brooms out in turn when you weren't looking,’ said Hermione from behind her tottering pile of Ancient Rune books.

‘Oh,’ said George, looking mildly impressed. ‘Well—that'd explain it.’

‘Has Ron saved a goal yet?’ asked Hermione, peering over the top of Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms.

‘Well, he can do it if he doesn't think anyone's watching him,’ said Fred, rolling his eyes. ‘So all we have to do is ask the crowd to turn their backs and talk among themselves every time the Quaffle goes up his end on Saturday.’

He got up again and moved restlessly to the window, staring out across the dark grounds.

‘You know, Quidditch was about the only thing in this place worth staying for.’

Hermione cast him a stern look.

‘You've got exams coming!’

‘Told you already, we're not fussed about NEWTs,’ said Fred. ‘The Snackboxes are ready to roll, we found out how to get rid of those boils, just a couple of drops of Murtlap essence sorts them, Lee put us on to it.’

George yawned widely and looked out disconsolately at the cloudy night sky.

‘I dunno if I even want to watch this match. If Zacharias Smith beats us I might have to kill myself.’

‘Kill him, more like,’ said Fred firmly.

‘That's the trouble with Quidditch,’ said Hermione absent-mindedly, once again bent over her Runes translation, ‘it creates all this bad feeling and tension between the houses.’

She looked up to find her copy of Spellman's Syllabary, and caught Fred, George and Harry all staring at her with expressions of mingled disgust and incredulity on their faces.

‘Well, it does!’ she said impatiently. ‘It's only a game, isn't it?’

‘Hermione,’ said Harry, shaking his head, ‘you're good on feelings and stuff, but you just don't understand about Quidditch.’

‘Maybe not,’ she said darkly, returning to her translation, ‘but at least my happiness doesn't depend on Ron's goalkeeping ability.’

And though Harry would rather have jumped off the Astronomy Tower than admit it to her, by the time he had watched the game the following Saturday he would have given any number of Galleons not to care about Quidditch either.

The very best thing you could say about the match was that it was short; the Gryffindor spectators had to endure only twenty-two minutes of agony. It was hard to say what the worst thing was: Harry thought it was a close-run contest between Ron's fourteenth failed save, Sloper missing the Bludger but hitting Angelina in the mouth with his bat, and Kirke shrieking and falling backwards off his broom when Zacharias Smith zoomed at him carrying the Quaffle. The miracle was that Gryffindor only lost by ten points: Ginny managed to snatch the Snitch from right under Hufflepuff Seeker Summerby's nose, so that the final score was two hundred and forty versus two hundred and thirty.

‘Good catch,’ Harry told Ginny back in the common room, where the atmosphere resembled that of a particularly dismal funeral.

‘I was lucky,’ she shrugged. ‘It wasn't a very fast Snitch and Summerby's got a cold, he sneezed and closed his eyes at exactly the wrong moment. Anyway, once you're back on the team—’

‘Ginny, I've got a lifelong ban.’

‘You're banned as long as Umbridge is in the school,’ Ginny corrected him. ‘There's a difference. Anyway, once you're back, I think I'll, try out for Chaser. Angelina and Alicia are both leaving next year and I prefer goal-scoring to Seeking anyway’

Harry looked over at Ron, who was hunched in a corner, staring at his knees, a bottle of Butlerbeer clutched in his hand.

‘Angelina still won't let him resign,’ Ginny said, as though reading Harry's mind. ‘She says she knows he's got it in him.’

Harry liked Angelina for the faith she was showing in Ron, but at the same time thought it would really be kinder to let him leave the team. Ron had left the pitch to another booming chorus of ‘Weasley is our King’ sung with great gusto by the Slytherins, who were now favourites to win the Quidditch Cup.

Fred and George wandered over.

‘I haven't even got the heart to take the mickey out of him,’ said Fred, looking over at Ron's crumpled figure. ‘Mind you ... when he missed the fourteenth—’

He made wild motions with his arms as though doing an upright doggy-paddle.

‘—well, I'll save it for parties, eh?’

Ron dragged himself up to bed shortly after this. Out of respect for his feelings, Harry waited a while before going up to the dormitory himself, so that Ron could pretend to be asleep if he wanted to. Sure enough, when Harry finally entered the room Ron was snoring a little too loudly to be entirely plausible.

Harry got into bed, thinking about the match. It had been immensely frustrating watching from the sidelines. He was quite impressed by Ginny's performance but he knew if he had been playing he could have caught the Snitch sooner ... there had been a moment when it had been fluttering near Kirke's ankle; if Ginny hadn't hesitated, she might have been able to scrape a win for Gryffindor.

Umbridge had been sitting a few rows below Harry and Hermione. Once or twice she had turned squatly in her seat to look at him, her wide toad's mouth stretched in what he thought had been a gloating smile. The memory of it made him feel hot with anger as he lay there in the dark. After a few minutes, however, he remembered that he was supposed to be emptying his mind of all emotion before he slept, as Snape kept instructing him at the end of every Occlumency lesson.

He tried for a moment or two, but the thought of Snape on top of memories of Umbridge merely increased his sense of grumbling resentment and he found himself focusing instead on how much he loathed the pair of them. Slowly, Ron's snores died away to be replaced by the sound of deep, slow breathing. It took Harry much longer to get to sleep; his body was tired, but it took his brain a long time to close down.

He dreamed that Neville and Professor Sprout were waltzing around the Room of Requirement while Professor McGonagall played the bagpipes. He watched them happily for a while, then decided to go and find the other members of the DA.

But when he left the room he found himself facing, not the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, but a torch burning in its bracket on a stone wall. He turned his head slowly to the left. There, at the far end of the windowless passage, was a plain, black door.

He walked towards it with a sense of mounting excitement. He had the strangest feeling that this time he was going to get lucky at last, and find the way to open it ... he was feet from it, and saw with a leap of excitement that there was a glowing strip of faint blue light down the right-hand side ... the door was ajar ... he stretched out his hand to push it wide and—

Ron gave a loud, rasping, genuine snore and Harry awoke abruptly with his right hand stretched in front of him in the darkness, to open a door that was hundreds of miles away. He let it fall with a feeling of mingled disappointment and guilt. He knew he should not have seen the door, but at the same time felt so consumed with curiosity about what was behind it that he could not help feeling annoyed with Ron ... if only he could have saved his snore for just another minute.

They entered the Great Hall for breakfast at exactly the same moment as the post owls on Monday morning. Hermione was not the only person eagerly awaiting her Daily Prophet: nearly everyone was eager for more news about the escaped Death Eaters, who, despite many reported sightings, had still not been caught. She gave the delivery owl a Knut and unfolded the newspaper eagerly while Harry helped himself to orange juice; as he had only received one note during the entire year, he was sure, when the first owl landed with a thud in front of him, that it had made a mistake.

‘Who're you after?’ he asked it, languidly removing his orange juice from underneath its beak and leaning forwards to see the recipient's name and address:

Harry Potter

Great Hall

Hogwarts School

Frowning, he made to take the letter from the owl, but before he could do so, three, four, five more owls had fluttered down beside it and were jockeying for position, treading in the butter and knocking over the salt as each one attempted to give him their letter first.

‘What's going on?’ Ron asked in amazement, as the whole of Gryffindor table leaned forwards to watch and another seven owls landed amongst the first ones, screeching, hooting and flapping their wings.

‘Harry!’ said Hermione breathlessly, plunging her hands into the feathery mass and pulling out a screech owl bearing a long, cylindrical package. ‘I think I know what this means—open this one first!’

Harry ripped off the brown packaging. Out rolled a tightly furled copy of the March edition of The Quibbler.He unrolled it to see his own face grinning sheepishly at him from the front cover. In large red letters across this picture were the words:

HARRY POTTER SPEAKS OUT AT LAST:

THE TRUTH ABOUT HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED

AND THE NIGHT I SAW HIM RETURN

‘It's good, isn't it?’ said Luna, who had drifted over to the Gryffindor table and now squeezed herself on to the bench between Fred and Ron. ‘It came out yesterday, I asked Dad to send you a free copy. I expect all these,’ she waved a hand at the assembled owls still scrabbling around on the table in front of Harry, ‘are letters from readers.’

‘That's what I thought,’ said Hermione eagerly. ‘Harry, d'you mind if we—?’

‘Help yourself,’ said Harry, feeling slightly bemused.

Ron and Hermione both started ripping open envelopes.

‘This one's from a bloke who thinks you're off your rocker,’ said Ron, glancing down his letter. ‘Ah well ...’

‘This woman recommends you try a good course of Shock Spells at St. Mungo's,’ said Hermione, looking disappointed and crumpling up a second.

‘This one looks OK, though,’ said Harry slowly scanning a long letter from a witch in Paisley. ‘Hey she says she believes me!’

‘This one's in two minds,’ said Fred, who had joined in the letter-opening with enthusiasm. ‘Says you don't come across as a mad person, but he really doesn't want to believe You-Know-Who's back so he doesn't know what to think now. Blimey, what a waste of parchment.’

‘Here's another one you've convinced, Harry!’ said Hermione excitedly. ‘Having read your side of the story, I am forced to the conclusion that the Daily Prophet has treated you very unfairly ... little though I want to think that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned, I am forced to accept that you are telling the truth ...Oh, this is wonderful!’

‘Another one who thinks you're barking,’ said Ron, throwing a crumpled letter over his shoulder ‘... but this one says you've got her converted and she now thinks you're a real hero—she's put in a photograph, too—wow!’

‘What is going on here?’ said a falsely sweet, girlish voice.

Harry looked up with his hands full of envelopes. Professor Umbridge was standing behind Fred and Luna, her bulging toad's eyes scanning the mess of owls and letters on the table in front of Harry. Behind her he saw many of the students watching them avidly.

‘Why have you got all these letters, Mr. Potter?’ she asked slowly.

‘Is that a crime now?’ said Fred loudly. ‘Getting mail?’

‘Be careful, Mr Weasley or I shall have to put you in detention,’ said Umbridge. ‘Well, Mr Potter?’

Harry hesitated, but he did not see how he could keep what he had done quiet; it was surely only a matter of time before a copy of The Quibbler came to Umbridge's attention.

‘People have written to me because I gave an interview,’ said Harry. ‘About what happened to me last June.’

For some reason he glanced up at the staff table as he said this. Harry had the strangest feeling that Dumbledore had been watching him a second before, but when he looked towards the Headmaster he seemed to be absorbed in conversation with Professor Flitwick.

‘An interview?’ repeated Umbridge, her voice thinner and higher than ever. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean a reporter asked me questions and I answered them,’ said Harry. ‘Here—’

And he threw the copy of The Quibbler to her. She caught it and stared down at the cover. Her pale, doughy face turned an ugly, patchy violet.

‘When did you do this?’ she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

‘Last Hogsmeade weekend,’ said Harry.

She looked up at him, incandescent with rage, the magazine shaking in her stubby fingers.

‘There will be no more Hogsmeade trips for you, Mr. Potter,’ she whispered. ‘How you dare ... how you could ...’ She took a deep breath. ‘I have tried again and again to teach you not to tell lies. The message, apparently, has still not sunk in. Fifty points from Gryffindor and another week's worth of detentions.’

She stalked away, clutching The Quibbler to her chest, the eyes of many students following her.

By mid-morning enormous signs had been put up all over the school, not just on house noticeboards, but in the corridors and classrooms too.

BY ORDER OF THE HIGH INQUISITOR OF HOGWARTS

 

Any student found in possession of the magazine

The Quibblerwill be expelled.

 

The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-seven.

 

Signed: Dolores Jane Umbridge, High Inquisitor

For some reason, every time Hermione caught sight of one of these signs she beamed with pleasure.

‘What exactly are you so happy about?’ Harry asked her.

‘Oh, Harry, don't you see?’ Hermione breathed. ‘If she could have done one thing to make absolutely sure that every single person in this school will read your interview, it was banning it!’

And it seemed that Hermione was quite right. By the end of the day, though Harry had not seen so much as a corner of The Quibbler anywhere in the school, the whole place seemed to be quoting the interview to each other. Harry heard them whispering about it as they queued up outside classes, discussing it over lunch and in the back of lessons, while Hermione even reported that every occupant of the cubicles in the girls’ toilets had been talking about it when she nipped in there before Ancient Runes.

‘Then they spotted me, and obviously they know I know you, so they bombarded me with questions,’ Hermione told Harry, her eyes shining, ‘and Harry, I think they believe you, I really do. I think you've finally got them convinced!’

Meanwhile, Professor Umbridge was stalking the school, stopping students at random and demanding that they turn out their books and pockets: Harry knew she was looking for copies of The Quibbler, but the students were several steps ahead of her. The pages carrying Harry's interview had been bewitched to resemble extracts from textbooks if anyone but themselves read it, or else wiped magically blank until they wanted to peruse it again. Soon it seemed that every single person in the school had read it.

The teachers were of course forbidden from mentioning the interview by Educational Decree Number Twenty-six, but they found ways to express their feelings about it all the same. Professor Sprout awarded Gryffindor twenty points when Harry passed her a watering can; a beaming Professor Flitwick pressed a box of squeaking sugar mice on him at the end of Charms, said, ‘Shh!’ and hurried away; and Professor Trelawney broke into hysterical sobs during Divination and announced to the startled class, and a very disapproving Umbridge, that Harry was not going to suffer an early death after all, but would live to a ripe old age, become Minister for Magic and have twelve children.

But what made Harry happiest was Cho catching up with him as he was hurrying along to Transfiguration the next day. Before he knew what had happened, her hand was in his and she was breathing in his ear, ‘I'm really, really sorry. That interview was so brave ... it made me cry.’

He was sorry to hear she had shed even more tears over it, but very glad they were on speaking terms again, and even more pleased when she gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and hurried off again. And unbelievably, no sooner had he arrived outside Transfiguration than something just as good happened: Seamus stepped out of the queue to face him.

‘I just wanted to say,’ he mumbled, squinting at Harry's left knee, ‘I believe you. And I've sent a copy of that magazine to me mam.’

If anything more was needed to complete Harry's happiness, it was the reaction he got from Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle. He saw them with their heads together later that afternoon in the library; they were with a weedy-looking boy Hermione whispered was called Theodore Nott. They looked round at Harry as he browsed the shelves for the book he needed on Partial Vanishment. Goyle cracked his knuckles threateningly and Malfoy whispered something undoubtedly malevolent to Crabbe. Harry knew perfectly well why they were acting like this: he had named all of their fathers as Death Eaters.

‘And the best bit,’ whispered Hermione gleefully, as they left the library, ‘is they can't contradict you, because they can't admit they've read the article!’

To cap it all, Luna told him over dinner that no issue of The Quibbler had ever sold out faster.

‘Dad's reprinting!’ she told Harry, her eyes popping excitedly. ‘He can't believe it, he says people seem even more interested in this than the Crumple-Horned Snorkacks!’

Harry was a hero in the Gryffindor common room that night. Daringly, Fred and George had put an Enlargement Charm on the front cover of The Quibbler and hung it on the wall, so that Harry's giant head gazed down upon the proceedings, occasionally saying things like ‘THE MINISTRY ARE MORONS’ and ‘EAT DUNG, UMBRIDGE’ in a booming voice. Hermione did not find this very amusing; she said it interfered with her concentration, and she ended up going to bed early out of irritation. Harry had to admit that the poster was not quite as funny after an hour or two, especially when the talking spell had started to wear off, so that it merely shouted disconnected words like ‘DUNG’ and ‘UMBRIDGE’ at more and more frequent intervals in a progressively higher voice. In fact, it started to make his head ache and his scar began prickling uncomfortably again. To disappointed moans from the many people who were sitting around him, asking him to relive his interview for the umpteenth time, he announced that he too needed an early night.

The dormitory was empty when he reached it. He rested his forehead for a moment against the cool glass of the window beside his bed; it felt soothing against his scar. Then he undressed and got into bed, wishing his headache would go away. He also felt slightly sick. He rolled over on to his side, closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost at once ...

He was standing in a dark, curtained room lit by a single branch of candles. His hands were clenched on the back of a chair in front of him. They were long-fingered and white as though they had not seen sunlight for years and looked like large, pale spiders agairst the dark velvet of the chair.

Beyond the chair, in a pool of light cast upon the floor by the candles, knelt a man in black robes.

‘I have been badly advised, it seems,’ said Harry, in a high, cold voice that pulsed with anger.

‘Master, I crave your pardon,’ croaked the man kneeling on the floor. The back of his head glimmered in the candlelight. He seemed to be trembling.

‘I do not blame you, Rookwood,’ said Harry in that cold, cruel voice.

He relinquished his grip on the chair and walked around it, closer to the man cowering on the floor, until he stood directly over him in the darkness, looking down from a far greater height than usual.

‘You are sure of your facts, Rookwood?’ asked Harry.

‘Yes, My Lord, yes ... I used to work in the Department aftet—after all ...’

‘Avery told me Bode would be able to remove it.’

‘Bode could never have taken it, Master ... Bode would have known he could not ... undoubtedly, that is why he fought so hard against Malfoy's Imperius Curse ...’

‘Stand up, Rookwood,’ whispered Harry.

The kneeling man almost fell over in his haste to obey. His face was pockmarked; the scars were thrown into relief by the candlelight. He remained a little stooped when standing, as though halfway through a bow, and he darted terrified looks up at Harry's face.

‘You have done well to tell me this,’ said Harry. ‘Very well ... I have wasted months on fruitless schemes, it seems ... but no matter ... we begin again, from now. You have Lord Voldemort's gratitude, Rookwood ...’

‘My Lord ... yes, My Lord,’ gasped Rookwood, his voice hoarse with relief.

‘I shall need your help. I shall need all the information you can give me.’

‘Of course, My Lord, of course ... anything ...’

‘Very well ... you may go. Send Avery to me.’

Rookwood scurried backwards, bowing, and disappeared through a door.

Left alone in the dark room, Harry turned towards the wall. A cracked, age-spotted mirror hung on the wall in the shadows. Harry moved towards it. His reflection grew larger and clearer in the darkness ... a face whiter than a skull ... red eyes with slits for pupils ...

‘NOOOOOOOOO!’

‘What?’ yelled a voice nearby.

Harry Hailed around madly, became entangled in the hangings and fell out of his bed. For a few seconds he did not know where he was; he was convinced he was about to see the white, skull-like lace looming at him out of the dark again, then very near to him Ron's voice spoke.

‘Will you stop acting like a maniac so I can get you out of here!’

Ron wrenched the hangings apart and Harry stared up at him in the moonlight, flat on his back, his scar searing with pain. Ron looked as though he had just been getting ready for bed; one arm was out of his robes.

‘Has someone been attacked again?’ asked Ron, pulling Harry roughly to his feet. ‘Is it Dad? Is it that snake?’

‘No—everyone's fine—’ gasped Harry, whose forehead felt as though it were on fire. ‘Well ... Avery isn't ... he's in trouble ... he gave him the wrong information ... Voldemort's really angry ...’

Harry groaned and sank, shaking, on to his bed, rubbing his scar.

‘But Rookwood's going to help him now ... he's on the right track again ...’

‘What are you talking about?’ said Ron, sounding scared. ‘D'you mean ... did you just see You-Know-Who?’

‘I was You-Know-Who,’ said Harry, and he stretched out his hands in the darkness and held them up to his face, to check that they were no longer deathly white and long-fingered. ‘He was with Rookwood, he's one of the Death Eaters who escaped from Azkaban, remember? Rookwood's just told him Bode couldn't have done it.’

‘Done what?’

‘Remove something ... he said Bode would have known he couldn't have done it ... Bode was under the Imperius Curse ... I think he said Malfoy's dad put it on him.’

‘Bode was bewitched to remove something?’ Ron said. ‘But—Harry, that's got to be—’

‘The weapon,’ Harry finished the sentence for him. ‘I know.’

The dormitory door opened; Dean and Seamus came in. Harry swung his legs back into bed. He did not want to look as though anything odd had just happened, seeing as Seamus had only just stopped thinking Harry was a nutter.

‘Did you say,’ murmured Ron, putting his head close to Harry's on the pretence of helping himself to water from the jug on his bedside table, ‘that you were You-Know-Who?’

‘Yeah,’ said Harry quietly.

Ron took an unnecessarily large gulp of water; Harry saw it spill over his chin on to his chest.

‘Harry,’ he said, as Dean and Seamus clattered around noisily, pulling off their robes and talking, ‘you've got to tell—’

‘I haven't got to tell anyone,’ said Harry shortly. ‘I wouldn't have seen it at all if I could do Occlumency. I'm supposed to have learned to shut this stuff out. That's what they want.’

By ‘they’ he meant Dumbledore. He got back into bed and rolled over on to his side with his back to Ron and after a while he heard Ron's mattress creak as he, too, lay back down. Harry's scar began to burn; he bit hard on his pillow to stop himself making a noise. Somewhere, he knew, Avery was being punished.

Harry and Ron waited until break next morning to tell Hermione exactly what had happened; they wanted to be absolutely sure they could not be overheard. Standing in their usual corner of the cool and breezy courtyard, Harry told her every detail of the dream he could remember. When he had finished, she said nothing at all for a few moments, but stared with a kind of painful intensity at Fred and George, who were both headless and selling their magical hats from under their cloaks on the other side of the yard.

‘So that's why they killed him,’ she said quietly, withdrawing her gaze from Fred and George at last. ‘When Bode tried to steal this weapon, something funny happened to him. I think there must be defensive spells on it, or around it, to stop people touching it. That's why he was in St. Mungos, his brain had gone all funny and he couldn't talk. But remember what the Healer told us? He was recovering. And they couldn't risk him getting better, could they? I mean, the shock of whatever happened when he touched that weapon probably made the Imperius Curse lift. Once he'd got his voice back, he'd explain what he'd been doing, wouldn't he? They would have known he'd been sent to steal the weapon. Of course, it would have been easy for Lucius Malfoy to put the curse on him. Never out of the Ministry, is he?’

‘He was even hanging around that day I had my hearing,’ said Harry. ‘In the—hang on ...’ he said slowly. ‘He was in the Department of Mysteries corridor that day! Your dad said he was probably trying to sneak down and find out what happened in my hearing, but what if—’

‘Sturgis!’ gasped Hermione, looking thunderstruck.

‘Sorry?’ said Ron, looking bewildered.

‘Sturgis Podmore —’ said Hermione breathlessly, ‘arrested for trying to get through a door! Lucius Malfoy must have got him too! I bet he did it the day you saw him there, Harry. Sturgis had Moody's Invisibility Cloak, right? So, what if he was standing guard by the door, invisible, and Malfoy heard him move—or guessed someone was there—or just did the Imperius Curse on the off-chance there'd be a guard there? So, when Sturgis next had an opportunity—probably when it was his turn on guard duty again—he tried to get into the Department to steal the weapon for Voldemort—Ron, be quiet—but he got caught and sent to Azkaban ...’

She gazed at Harry.

‘And now Rookwood's told Voldemort how to get the weapon?’

‘I didn't hear all the conversation, but that's what it sounded like,’ said Harry. ‘Rookwood used to work there ... maybe Voldemort'll send Rookwood to do it?’

Hermione nodded, apparently still lost in thought. Then, quite abruptly, she said, ‘But you shouldn't have seen this at all, Harry.’

‘What?’ he said, taken aback.

‘You're supposed to be learning how to close your mind to this sort of thing,’ said Hermione, suddenly stern.

‘I know I am,’ said Harry. ‘But—’

‘Well, I think we should just try and forget what you saw,’ said Hermione firmly. ‘And you ought to put in a bit more effort on your Occlumency from now on.’

Harry was so angry with her he did not talk to her for the rest of the day, which proved to be another bad one. When people were not discussing the escaped Death Eaters in the corridors, they were laughing at Gryffindor's abysmal performance in their match against Hufflepuff; the Slytherins were singing Weasley is our King’ so loudly and frequently that by sundown Filch had banned it from the corridors out of sheer irritation.

The week did not improve as it progressed. Harry received two more ‘Ds in Potions; he was still on tenterhooks that Hagrid might get the sack; and he couldn't stop himself dwelling on the dream in which he had been Voldemort—though he didn't bring it up with Ron and Hermione again; he didn't want another telling-off from Hermione. He wished very much that he could have talked to Sirius about it, but that was out of the question, so he tried to push the matter to the back of his mind.

Unfortunately, the back of his mind was no longer the secure place it had once been.

‘Get up, Potter.’

A couple of weeks after his dream of Rookwood, Harry was to be found, yet again, kneeling on the floor of Snape's office, trying to clear his head. He had just been forced, yet again, to relive a stream of very early memories he had not even realised he still had, most of them concerning humiliations Dudley and his gang had inflicted upon him in primary school.

‘That last memory,’ said Snape. ‘What was it?’

‘I don't know,’ said Harry, getting wearily to his feet. He was finding it increasingly difficult to disentangle separate memories from the rush of images and sound that Snape kept calling forth. ‘You mean the one where my cousin tried to make me stand in the toilet?’

‘No,’ said Snape softly. ‘I mean the one with a man kneeling in the middle of a darkened room ...’

‘It's ... nothing,’ said Harry.

Snape's dark eyes bored into Harry's. Remembering what Snape had said about eye contact being crucial to Legilimency, Harry blinked and looked away.

‘How do that man and that room come to be inside your head, Potter?’ said Snape.

‘It—’ said Harry, looking everywhere but at Snape, ‘it was—just a dream I had.’

‘A dream?’ repeated Snape.

There was a pause during which Harry stared fixedly at a large dead frog suspended in a jar of purple liquid.

‘You do know why we are here, don't you, Potter?’ said Snape, in a low, dangerous voice. ‘You do know why I am giving up my evenings to this tedious job?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry stiffly.

‘Remind me why we are here, Potter.’

‘So I can learn Occlumency, said Harry, now glaring at a dead eel.

‘Correct, Potter. And dim though you may be—’ Harry looked back at Snape, hating him ‘—I would have thought that after over two months of lessons you might have made some progress. How many other dreams about the Dark Lord have you had?’

‘Just that one,’ lied Harry.

‘Perhaps,’ said Snape, his dark, cold eyes narrowing slightly, ‘perhaps you actually enjoy having these visions and dreams, Potter. Maybe they make you feel special— important?’

‘No, they don't,’ said Harry, his jaw set and his fingers clenched tightly around the handle of his wand.

That is just as well, Potter,’ said Snape coldly, ‘because you are neither special nor important, and it is not up to you to find out what the Dark Lord is saying to his Death Eaters.’

‘No—that's your job, isn't it?’ Harry shot at him.

He had not meant to say it; it had burst out of him in temper. For a long moment they stared at each other, Harry convinced he had gone too far. But there was a curious, almost satisfied expression on Snape's face when he answered.

‘Yes, Potter,’ he said, his eyes glinting. ‘That is my job. Now, if you are ready, we will start again.’

He raised his wand: ‘One—two—three—Legilimens!’

A hundred dementors were swooping towards Harry across the lake in the grounds ... he screwed up his face in concentration ... they were coming closer ... he could see the dark holes beneath their hoods ... yet he could also see Snape standing in front of him, his eyes fixed on Harry's face, muttering under his breath ... and somehow, Snape was growing clearer, and the dementors were growing fainter ...

Harry raised his own wand.

‘Protego!’

Snape staggered— his wand flew upwards, away from Harry—and suddenly Harry's mind was teeming with memories that were not his: a hook-nosed man was shouting at a cowering woman, while a small dark-haired boy cried in a corner ... a greasy-haired teenager sat alone in a dark bedroom, pointing his wand at the ceiling, shooting down flies ... a girl was laughing as a scrawny boy tried to mount a bucking broomstick—

‘ENOUGH!’

Harry felt as though he had been pushed hard in the chest; he staggered several steps backwards, hit some of the shelves covering Snape's walls and heard something crack. Snape was shaking slightly, and was very white in the face.

The back of Harry's robes was damp. One of the jars behind him had broken when he fell against it; the pickled slimy thing within was swirling in its draining potion.

‘Reparo,’ hissed Snape, and the jar sealed itself at once. ‘Well, Potter ... that was certainly an improvement ...’ Panting slightly, Snape straightened the Pensieve in which he had again stored some of his thoughts before starting the lesson, almost as though he was checking they were still there. ‘I don't remember telling you to use a Shield Charm ... but there is no doubt that it was effective ...’

Harry did not speak; he felt that to say anything might be dangerous. He was sure he had just broken into Snape's memories, that he had just seen scenes from Snape's childhood. It was unnerving to think that the little boy who had been crying as he watched his parents shouting was actually standing in front of him with such loathing in his eyes.

‘Let's try again, shall we?’ said Snape.

Harry felt a thrill of dread; he was about to pay for what had just happened, he was sure of it. They moved back into position with the desk between them, Harry feeling he was going to find it much harder to empty his mind this time.

‘On the count of three, then,’ said Snape, raising his wand once more. ‘One—two—’

Harry did not have time to gather himself together and attempt to clear his mind before Snape cried, ‘Legilimens!’

He was hurtling along the corridor towards the Department of Masteries, past the blank stone walls, past the torches—the plain black door was growing ever larger; he was moving so fast he was going to collide with it, he was feet from it and again he could see that chink of faint blue light—

The door had flown open! He was through it at last, inside a black-walled, black-floored circular room lit with blue-flamed candles, and there were more doors all around him—he needed to go on—but which door ought he to take—?

‘P OTTER!’

Harry opened his eyes. He was flat on his back again with no memory of having got there; he was also panting as though his really had run the length of the Department of Mysteries corridor, really had sprinted through the black door and found the circular room.

‘Explain yourself!’ said Snape, who was standing over him, looking furious.

‘I ... dunno what happened,’ said Harry truthfully, standing up. There was a lump on the back of his head from where he had hit the ground and he felt feverish. ‘I've never seen that before. I mean, I told you, I've dreamed about the door ... but it's never opened before ...’

‘You are not working hard enough!’

For some reason, Snape seemed even angrier than he had done two minutes before, when Harry had seen into his teacher's memories.

‘You are lazy and sloppy, Potter, it is small wonder that the Dark Lord—’

‘Can you tell me something, sir?’ said Harry, firing up again. ‘Why do you call Voldemort the Dark Lord? I've only ever heard Death Eaters call him that.’

Snape opened his mouth in a snarl—and a woman screamed from somewhere outside the room.

Snape's head jerked upwards; he was gazing at the ceiling.

‘What the—?’ he muttered.

Harry could hear a muffled commotion coming from what he thought might be the Entrance Hall. Snape looked round at him, frowning.

‘Did you see anything unusual on your way down here, Potter?’

Harry shook his head. Somewhere above them, the woman screamed again. Snape strode to his office door, his wand still held at the ready, and swept out of sight. Harry hesitated for a moment, then followed.

The screams were indeed coming from the Entrance Hall; they grew louder as Harry ran towards the stone steps leading up from the dungeons. When he reached the top he found the Entrance Hall packed; students had come flooding out of the Great Hall, where dinner was still in progress, to see what was going on; others had crammed themselves on to the marble staircase. Harry pushed forwards through a knot of tall Slytherins and saw that the onlookers had formed a great ring, some of them looking shocked, others even frightened. Professor McGonagall was directly opposite Harry en the other side of the Hall; she looked as though what she was watching made her feel faintly sick.

Professor Trelawney was standing in the middle of the Entrance Hall with her wand in one hand and an empty sherry bottle in the other, looking utterly mad. Her hair was sticking up on end, her glasses were lopsided so that one eye was magnified more than the other; her innumerable shawls and scarves were trailing haphazardly from her shoulders, giving the impression that she was falling apart at the seams. Two large trunks lay on the floor beside her, one of them upside-down; it looked very much as though it had been thrown down the stairs after her. Professor Trelawney was staring, apparently terrified, at something Harry could not see but which seemed to be standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘NO! This cannot be happening ... it cannot ... I retuse to accept it!’

‘You didn't realise this was coming?’ said a high girlish voice, sounding callously amused, and Harry, moving slightly to his right, saw that Trelawney's terrifying vision was nothing other than Professor Umbridge. ‘Incapable though you are of predicting even tomorrows weather, you must surely have realised that your pitiful performance during my inspections, and lack of any improvement, would make it inevitable that you would be sacked?’

‘You c—can't!’ howled Professor Trelawney, tears streaming down her face from behind her enormous lenses, ‘you c—can't sack me! I've b—been here sixteen years! H— Hogwarts is m—my h—home!’

‘It was your home,’ said Professor Umbridge, and Harry was revolted to see the enjoyment stretching her toadlike face as she watched Professor Trelawney sink, sobbing uncontrollably, on to one of her trunks, ‘until an hour ago, when the Minister for Magic countersigned your Order of Dismissal. Now kindly remove yourself from this Hall. You are embarrassing us.’

But she stood and watched, with an expression of gloating enjoyment, as Professor Trelawney shuddered and moaned, rocking backwards and forwards on her trunk in paroxysms of grief. Harry heard a muffled sob to his left and looked around. Lavender and Parvati were both crying quietly, their arms round each other. Then he heard footsteps. Professor McGonagall had broken away from the spectators, marched straight up to Professor Trelawney and was patting her firmly on the back while withdrawing a large handkerchief from within her robes.

‘There, there, Sybill ... calm down ... blow your nose on this ... it's not as bad as you think, now ... you are not going to have to leave Hogwarts ...’

‘Oh really, Professor McGonagall?’ said Umbridge in a deadly voice, taking a few steps forward. ‘And your authority for that statement is ... ?’

‘That would be mine,’ said a deep voice.

The oaken front doors had swung open. Students beside them scuttled out of the way as Dumbledore appeared in the entrance. What he had been doing out in the grounds Harry could not imagine, but there was something impressive about the sight of him framed in the doorway against an oddly misty night. Leaving the doors wide open behind him he strode forwards through the circle of onlookers towards Professor Trelawney, tear-stained and trembling, on her trunk, Professor McGonagall alongside her.

‘Yours, Professor Dumbledore?’ said Umbridge, with a singularly unpleasant little laugh. ‘I'm afraid you do not understand the position. I have here—’ she pulled a parchment scroll from within her robes ‘—an Order of Dismissal signed by myself and the Minister for Magic. Under the terms of Educational Decree Number Twenty-three, the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts has the power to inspect, place upon probation and sack any teacher she—that is to say, I—feel is not performing to the standards required by the Ministry of Magic. I have decided that Professor Trelawney is not up to scratch. I have dismissed her.’

To Harry's very great surprise, Dumbledore continued to smile. He looked down at Professor Trelawney, who was still sobbing and choking on her trunk, and said, ‘You are quite right, of course, Professor Umbridge. As High Inquisitor you have every right to dismiss my teachers. You do not, however, have the authority to send them away from the castle. I am afraid,’ he went on, with a courteous little bow, ‘that the power to do that still resides with the Headmaster, and it is my wish that Professor Trelawney continue to live at Hogwarts.’

At this, Professor Trelawney gave a wild little laugh in which a hiccough was barely hidden.

‘No—no, I'll g —go, Dumbledore! I sh—shall—leave Hogwarts and s—seek my fortune elsewhere—’

‘No,’ said Dumbledore sharply. ‘It is my wish that you remain, Sybill.’

He turned to Professor McGonagall.

‘Might I ask you to escort Sybill back upstairs, Professor McGonagall?’

‘Of course,’ said McGonagall. ‘Up you get, Sybill ...’

Professor Sprout came hurrying forwards out of the crowd and grabbed Professor Trelawney's other arm. Together, they guided her past Umbridge and up the marble stairs. Professor Flitwick went scurrying after them, his wand held out before him; he squeaked ‘Locomotor trunks!’ and Professor Trelawney's luggage rose into the air and proceeded up the staircase after her, Professor Flitwick bringing up the rear.

Professor Umbridge was standing stock still, staring at Dumbledore, who continued to smile benignly.

‘And what,’ she said, in a whisper that carried all around the Eintrance Hall, ‘are you going to do with her once I appoint a new Divination teacher who needs her lodgings?’

‘Oh, that won't be a problem,’ said Dumbledore pleasantly. ‘You see, I have already found us a new Divination teacher, and he will prefer lodgings on the ground floor.’

‘You've found— ?’ said Umbridge shrilly. ‘You've found? Might I remind you, Dumbledore, that under Educational Decree Number Twenty-two—’

‘The Ministry has the right to appoint a suitable candidate if—and only if—the Headmaster is unable to find one,’ said Dumbledore. ‘And I am happy to say that on this occasion I have succeeded. May I introduce you?’

He turned to face the open front doors, through which night mist was now drifting. Harry heard hooves. There was a shocked murmur around the Hall and those nearest the doors hastily moved even further backwards, some of them tripping over in their haste to clear a path for the newcomer.

Through the mist came a face Harry had seen once before on a dark, dangerous night in the Forbidden Forest: white-blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes; the head and torso of a man joined to the palomino body of a horse.

‘This is Firenze,’ said Dumbledore happily to a thunderstruck Umbridge. ‘I think you'll find him suitable.’

露娜含含糊糊地表示，她不知道丽塔采访哈利的文章多会才能出现在《巫师周刊》上，她父亲想要的是一篇关于最近Crumple-Horned Snorkacks的情况的长长的、引人入胜的文章，“—当然，它将是一个很重要的故事，所以哈利得等一段时间才能看到自己的文章发表。”露娜说。

　　哈利丝毫不觉得谈论伏地魔复活的那个夜晚是一次轻松愉快的经历。丽塔强迫他提供每一个微小的细节，他把他能想起的全都告诉了她，他知道这是一此难得的机会来告诉这个世界事实的真相。他想象着人们的反应，猜想相当一部分人会认为他的的确确是疯了，更何况他的文章还就发表在关于Crumple-Horned Snorkacks的废话旁边。但是贝拉特里克斯和她同伙的越狱给了哈利一种强烈的渴望，他一定要做些什么，不管有没有用。

　　“我已经等不及想看看昂布瑞吉对你文章的反应了！”星期一晚上晚餐时，迪恩用敬畏的口气叫道。在他旁边西莫斯正叉着鸡快和火腿派，但是哈利知道他正听着呢。

　　“你做的对，哈利。”纳威就坐在对面，脸色很苍白，但仍低低地说，“谈论这个一定很—艰苦，是吧？”

　　“是的，”哈利咕哝着，“但是人们必须知道伏地魔能做些什么，对吗？”

　　“没错，”纳威点头，“还有他的食死徒，人们应该知道。”

　　纳威话音未落，又开始吃他的烤土豆了。西莫斯抬起头来，但当他遇上哈利的视线时又连忙低下头去看他的盘子。过了一会儿，迪恩、西莫斯和纳威回公共休息室去了，留下哈利和荷米恩等着罗恩。罗恩因为要练习魁地奇，还没有来吃晚饭。

　　秋张和她的朋友玛丽塔走进了大厅，哈利感到胃里一阵不舒服，但她并没有看格莱芬多的桌子，而是坐下来把背对着他。

　　“噢，我忘了问你了，”荷米恩看了一眼拉文克劳的桌子，高兴地问道，“你和秋的约会怎么样？你怎么回来得这么早？”

　　“呃，那个么，”哈利把一盘面包拉过来，拿了一些，“完全一塌糊涂。”

　　接着他就把在帕迪弗特夫人茶馆里发生的事告诉了她。

　　“然后，”他吃完面包的时候差不多也说完了，“她跳了起来，说‘我会留意你的，哈利，’接着就跑了出去！”他停下勺子看着荷米恩，“我说，这到底是怎么回事，发生什么事啦？”

　　荷米恩看了一眼秋的后脑勺，叹了口气。

　　“噢，哈利，”她遗憾地说，“我很抱歉，但是你真的太不老练了。”

　　“我？不老练？”哈利生气地说，“前一分钟我们还相处地很好，后一分钟她就告诉我罗杰。戴维斯邀请她出去过，而塞德里克又是怎样和她在那间愚蠢的茶馆里约会接吻—我听了之后该会有什么感觉？”

　　“噢，你瞧，”荷米恩说，她耐心的口气就好像在向一个情绪化的孩子解释一加一等于二，“你不该在约会到一半的时候告诉她，你要和我见面。”

　　“但是，但是，”哈利杂乱地说，“你让我十二点的时候和你碰面，而且还带她来，我不告诉她的话又怎么可能做到？”

　　“你不该那样告诉她，”荷米恩说，仍然用一种另人恼火的耐心的口气。“你应该说这真是很讨厌，但是我硬要你去三把扫帚见面，你根本就不想去，你更情愿和她待一整天。不幸的是你不得不去见我，而她是不是愿意和你一起以使你能够很快地脱身。同时你最好能够提一提你认为我有多么难看。”

　　“可我不认为你难看。”哈利困惑地说。

　　荷米恩笑了。

　　“哈利你比罗恩还要差劲，噢，不，你不是，”她叹口气，这时罗恩跌跌撞撞地走进大厅，浑身泥泞，看上去脾气很坏。“看，你跟秋说要和我见面的事另她不安，所以她想让你妒忌。她试图证明你有多喜欢她。

　　“她是那样吗？”哈利问，罗恩一屁股坐在对面的凳子上，把所以吃的都拉到面前。“她直接问我喜欢她是不是胜过喜欢你不是更简单吗？”

　　“女孩子从不那样问。”荷米恩说。

　　“可她们应该那样！”哈利激烈地说，“我就可以告诉她我有多迷恋她，而她也不必再次为塞德里克的死感到难受！”

　　“我没说她做得对，”荷米恩说，这时金妮也来了，和罗恩一样浑身泥泞，看上去非常不高兴。“我只是想告诉你她那时候的感受。”

　　“你该写一本书，”罗恩一边切土豆一边说，“解释一下女孩们不可理解的举动，这样男孩们才会明白。”

　　“没错，”哈利热诚地说，看了一眼拉文克劳的桌子。秋刚刚站了起来，仍然没看他就走出了大厅。他沮丧地转过来看着罗恩和金妮，“魁地奇练习怎么样？”

　　“恶梦一场，”罗恩板着面孔说。

　　“噢，别这样，”荷米恩看着金妮说，“我想还不至于—”

　　“不，是这样的，”金妮说，“简直难以置信，到最后安吉利娜都快要哭了。”

　　吃完饭后罗恩和金妮去洗澡了；哈利 和荷米恩回到公共休息室做作业。哈利花了半个小时做一份天文学的星像图，这时弗莱德和乔治来了。 “罗恩和金妮不在？”弗莱德坐在一张椅子上，朝周围看了看，问道。看到荷米恩摇了摇头，他说：“好极了，我们一直在看练习，他们会被杀了的，没有我们他们简直一塌糊涂。”

　　“别这么说，金妮还不坏，”乔治公平地说，在弗莱德旁边坐了下来，“老实说，我真不知道她怎么会这么棒，我们从来没让她和我们一起玩。”

　　“她六岁的时候就乘你们不注意，跑到花园里的扫帚房里去，把扫帚一把把地拿出来了。”荷米恩在一大堆摇摇欲坠的古代诗歌书后面说。

　　“噢，”乔治说，看上去有点感动，“那就可以解释了。”

　　“罗恩能够救球了吗？”荷米恩问，从一本《魔法象形文字和语标符号》上面投来目光。

　　“如果他认为没人看着他，他就行。”弗莱德翻着眼睛说，“看来星期六那天，鬼飞球飞过来的时候，我们得让观众统统转过身去。”

　　他又站了起来，不安地走到窗边，看着黑压压的云层。

　　“你知道，魁地奇是唯一值得留在这个地方的东西。”

　　荷米恩严厉地瞥了他一眼。

　　“你马上就要考试了！”

　　“不是告诉过你么，我们才不会为了NEWTS大惊小怪。”弗莱德说。“削蛇盒已经准备好了，我们已经知道怎么去掉那些疖子，用几滴MURTLAP就能做到，李教我们的。”

　　乔治大大地打了个哈欠，闷闷不乐地看着窗外的夜空，“我不知道自己想不想去看这场比赛，如果扎卡利亚斯打败了我们，我很可能会杀了自己的。”

　　“更可能杀了他。”弗莱德坚决地说。

　　“这就是魁地奇的问题，”荷米恩心不在焉地说，又向古代诗歌翻译侧过身去，“它在学院之间制造了紧张和不安的情绪。”

　　她抬起头寻找咒语文字表，发现弗莱德、乔治和哈利都用一种又反感又怀疑的表情看着她。

　　“噢，它就是那样的！”她不耐烦地说，“不过是一个游戏，对吗？”

　　“荷米恩，”哈利摇摇头，“你在很多事情上都很在行，但是你根本不懂魁地奇。”

　　“也许是吧，”她沉着脸说，又回到她的翻译上去，“但最起码我的快乐不会建立在罗恩的救球能力上。”

　　尽管哈利宁愿从天文观测塔上跳下去，也不愿意同意她的观点，但在他观看即将到来的星期六的那场比赛之前，他情愿付出所有的加隆去丧失对魁地奇的兴趣。

　　这场比赛最好的一点是它比较短，格莱芬多的观众只要忍受二十二分钟的痛苦。很难说它最坏的一点是什么：哈利想有这些可以候选—罗恩第十四次救球失败，斯洛普错过了布拉杰却打中了安吉丽娜的嘴，当扎卡利亚斯抓住鬼飞球的时候科克尖身叫着从扫帚上摔了下来。格莱芬多只输掉十分真是一个奇迹：金妮从海夫帕夫的找球手萨姆贝的鼻子底下抓到了金色飞贼，然后最后的比分是240对230。

　　“干得不错，”当金妮回来的时候哈利对她说，此时公共休息室里弥漫着一种令人消沉的类似葬礼的气氛。

　　“我运气好，”她耸耸肩，“金色飞贼飞得很快，萨姆贝正好感冒了，他打了个喷嚏，在不应该的时候把眼睛闭上了。无论如何，一旦你回到队里—”

　　“金妮，我得到了终身禁令。”

　　“你只是在昂布瑞吉在校的时候被禁止了。”金妮纠正他，“那是不同的。不管怎样，如果你回来了，我就去试试追球手，安吉利娜和爱丽西亚明年都要毕业了，我更喜欢得分的感觉。”

　　哈利看看罗恩，他正弓着身子待在角落里，瞪着自己的膝盖，手里抓着一瓶黄油啤酒。

　　“安吉利娜还是不让他辞职，”金妮说，好像知道哈利的心思。“她说她知道他会好的。”

　　哈利为安吉利娜对罗恩的信心感到高兴，但同时也想也许让他离队对他更好些。当斯莱特林高兴地大唱“威斯里是我们的国王”时，罗恩就不知所措了，而前者现在对赢得魁地奇杯充满信心。

　　弗莱德和乔治走了过来。

　　“我就知道他会没精神，”弗莱德看着罗恩弯曲的身影说，“我要提醒你们，当他第十四次漏过—”

　　他用手臂夸张地做了一个小狗滑水的动作。

　　“—噢，我会救到的，嗯？”

　　罗恩不久就拖着身体去睡觉了。为了尊重他的感受，哈利等了一会儿才会宿舍，免得罗恩还得假装睡着。可以肯定的是，当哈利最后回到房间的时候，罗恩的打呼声大了那么一点儿，听上去完全是假的。

　　哈利躺在床上，想着这场比赛。从旁观者的角度来看，这是一次彻底的失败。金妮的表现非常不错，但他知道如果让他来，他能更早抓住金色飞贼。它曾经在科克的脚踝边扑腾了一会儿，如果金妮没有犹豫的话，她可以为格莱芬多赢得胜利。

　　昂布瑞吉就坐在哈利和荷米恩下面几排，有一两次她转过身来看他，宽宽的蛤蟆似的嘴巴咧开了，也许她认为这是一种心满意足的笑。哈利躺在黑暗里被记忆激起了怒火。然而几分钟后，他想起他必须在睡前清除所以情绪，就像斯内普每节Occlumengcy课后提示他的那样。

　　他尝试去做，但是想到斯内普反而加深了他对昂布瑞吉的怨恨，他发现他的思绪已经集中在他有多恨这两个人上面。慢慢地，罗恩的鼾声消失了，代之以深沉的、缓慢的呼吸。哈利更难睡着了，他的身体很累，可他的头脑却迟迟不能休息。

　　他梦到纳威和斯普劳特教授在问讯室的外面跳华尔兹，而麦格教授却在吹奏风笛。他看着他们那愉快的样子，决定去找其他的DA成员。

　　但是当他离开教室时他发现，他面前的墙上不是Barnabas the Barmy的挂毯，而是一把插在支架上的火把。他把头慢慢转向左边，那里，在长长的没有窗户的通道尽头，是一扇黑乎乎的门。

　　他朝它走去，兴奋不已。他有种奇怪的感觉，这次他会有足够的好运去打开它。他走它面前，兴奋地发现右手边有一股炽热的淡蓝色的光，门是开着的，他伸出手，把它推开—

　　罗恩发出一阵响亮的、真实的鼾声，哈利猛地醒过来，发现自己的右手向前面的黑暗里伸着，像是要去开一扇百里以外的门。伴随着失落感和罪恶感，他把手放下。他知道他不可能看见这扇门，但仍有着强烈的好奇心想知道它后面是什么。他不禁有点责怪罗恩的打扰，要是他能控制一下自己的鼾声就